The Cure For Love
by TheDoctorsCompanion13
Summary: Sequel to my story: Because I'd Die For You.   Months after the "incident" and getting settled into their new relationship, Sherlock and John receive a text from D.I. Lestrade with news that will change their lives for the worst.
1. Chapter 1

_BANG!_

The sound echoed off the walls of 221b, slicing through the silence of the morning. It permeated every inch of the flat and interrupted the dream of one Sherlock Holmes. He awoke with a start, heart beating frantically in his chest. When he registered the noise he immediately expected the worst, especially when he gazed down to see that the man who was usually beside him was missing. He panicked, not bothering to dress, and raced into the living room in nothing but his boxers. He quickly scanned the area for signs of a break-in or a shooting but found nothing of the sort. Instead he found John Watson in the kitchen, cleaning up a mess on the floor.

"Good morning, Sherlock," he said when he finally noticed the detective.

"Morning," he replied, feeling slightly embarrassed.

John had obviously just dropped a pan of viscous liquid, probably eggs in preparation to be scrambled. He felt ridiculous. He had been on edge for months, ever since he was shot, and it was running him down.

"You were making breakfast," Sherlock stated.

"I _am _making breakfast. A spill won't stop me," he replied, throwing out the soaked paper towels and placing the pan in the sink.

"Why?"

John shrugged. "I just felt like it. Nice outfit, by the way."

He looked down. "Right. I'm going to go put some pants on."

"You don't need to for my sake!" he shouted after him.

"Don't worry! I'm not!"

He padded back to his room and pulled on sweatpants and a cotton tee-shirt. The usually grogginess accompanied with first waking up was shattered by his unconventional start but he wasn't ready to lose the morning. He walked back out into the living room to the soothing sounds of sizzling and the shuffling of pans across the stovetop. He walked up behind John and wrapped an arm loosely around his waist.

"So, what are you making?"

"None of your business. You can wait until it's done."

"Fine. I just hope you didn't use anything on the top shelf in the fridge."

"Why?" John asked, looking up from the stove.

"Let's just say it would make the food you've made inedible. Well, not inedible but I wouldn't eat it since I value my life," he said unraveling his arm and picking up his laptop on his way to the couch.

He plopped down and stretched out, deciding to search the newspapers online for anything exciting. There wasn't anything and anything that seemed like it was, was a lie in one way or another. He sighed, closing the laptop and staring off at nothing. It was going to be a boring day, he could tell. It had been a boring month so far, nothing up his alley in the way of crimes. It was killing him.

"Breakfast is ready. If you want a place to sit you had better clear off some of your experiments from the table."

"Can't we just sit on the couch, then?"

"No. No table no breakfast. I thought you were using my old room for storing this stuff now."

"It's full," he whined, standing up and moving toward the kitchen table.

"It's full? It's been, what, five months and you've already filled that room?"

Sherlock gave John a look that reminded him of a child that was unaware he had done something wrong. John sighed.

"Just put it on an empty counter for now, or something."

He nodded, picked up the beakers and vials, and placed them carefully on a open countertop. John brought the plates to the small empty space of the table and set them down in front of the two chairs. Sherlock collapsed into his chair, examining the contents of his plate. Bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast with butter and jam. It was simple but it was better than any breakfast he'd eaten in a while. He picked up his fork and poked at it for a minute before actually eating it, but when he did it was better than he expected.

"This is quite good."

"Thank you," John replied with a bit of pride in his voice.

"It's not a compliment, it's the truth," he started but caught himself when he realized how harsh he sounded. "Er, but you're welcome."

He had been trying to work on being nice rather than blunt and factual. It was a difficult task but John was infinitely patient with him. It was a trait he was grateful for. Sherlock had already finished more than half of his plate in less than a minute when a faint but familiar sound reached his ears. He paused, listening, and when he finally recognized it he jumped from his chair and ran to his room.

He ran straight toward the end table on his side of the bed and picked up the sleek cell phone that rested there. He had a text and it was from Lestrade. It was strange and rare for him to text anyone but that didn't matter to Sherlock. That text meant the day was going to be exciting after all. He read it and his curiosity was, in fact, peaked.

I have very important news but I should tell you face-to-face.  
See you in ten.

"John, Lestrade is coming over!" he shouted from the bedroom.

"Is it a case?"

"I don't know," he said returning to the table. "but it's bound to be interesting."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock rushed to finish eating and darted back to his room to dress. He wasn't feeling particularly formal that day so he pulled on a pair of jeans and a burgundy button-down shirt. He had a certain amount of pride when it came to his appearance and even though it was only Lestrade he still wanted to be presentable. John was cleaning off the dishes when he walked back out so he stood in the living room, feeling awkward, wondering if there was anything he could do to help. To make a point, he walked into the kitchen with a timid disposition and made a place beside John until he noticed him. It didn't take him long.

"What?" he asked without looking up from the sink.

"Anything I can do?"

"You? Sherlock, you're the epitome of chaos," he laughed but when he saw Sherlock's face he saw how serious he was. "Well, if you really want to help you can dry the dishes and put them in the strainer over there."

He nodded, his mind set on the domestic task, when there was a knock on the door and his mind-set dissipated. John was thoroughly unsurprised, he even smiled in amusement. Sherlock rushed to the door and opened it to D.I. Lestrade in mid-knock. Lestrade nodded in acknowledgement but he had an odd look on his face that Sherlock had never seen him wear before.

"Come in," Sherlock said, stepping aside.

"Thanks," he replied, running a hand through his grey hair.

"What's wrong, Lestrade?" John asked, using his astounding power of empathy.

Sherlock stared at the D.I. trying to see what John saw. He noticed that he looked ill, frustrated, and ragged.

"Well, I said I have news but it isn't very good news," Lestrade said solemnly. "I know it's cliché but you should probably sit down."

Sherlock started to protest but John reached him before he could. He grabbed his arm led him to the couch, the only man who could pacify the great detective. They sat down together and Lestrade pulled a chair over to face them. He sighed before he started to speak.

"Sherlock, your brother sent me a message this morning."

"Why would he say something to you and not to me?"

"Probably because I answer my phone," he snapped. "Also because this concerns me and those at Scotland Yard as much as it does the two of you."

"What is it?" John asked, grasping Sherlock's hand.

"I should just say it, I suppose. Moriarty has escaped."

Sherlock's hold on John's hand tightened considerably. "How?"

"It seems he made some friends with a few security guards on the inside. He killed one of them and left the body in his bed to give him more time before he was noticed. He left a note," he said to Sherlock. "I think it was meant for you."

Lestrade rummaged through his pockets until his fingers curled around a particular piece of paper. He unfolded it, just to be sure it was the right one, and handed it to the dark-haired man before him. Sherlock didn't want to look at it, he felt sick at what it might say, but the other two men in the room were staring expectantly at him to read it. He gazed down at the paper and the note was written in an elegant cursive.

People are easily corruptible. It's all about what they desire and if you want to give it or take it away.  
-M

"Lestrade, we need a detail here to protect John," he said in a monotone, his hands shaking.

"My thoughts exactly. I have a team on the way."

"Good."

"Wait. To protect me? Do I get a say in this?"

"NO, JOHN. YOU DON'T," Sherlock shouted, crumpling the note in his fist. "I may be his main target but Moriarty is after you."

"Why?"

He hesitated. "You don't need to know…"

"Sherlock-"

"You don't," he said sharply.

"Then what am I supposed to do? Stay here forever."

"You will stay here until Moriarty is recaptured or dead."

"I have a job, Sherlock, and who's going to do the shopping? You?"

"I'll explain the situation to the hospital and they'll understand, I'm sure. If not, you're more than qualified to work elsewhere. And I will do the shopping. I did take care of myself at one point."

"Yes, I've been wondering how you survived before you met me."

He looked to John with a softness in his eyes. "I've wondered the same thing."

"I'm going to stay here until the security detail shows up, just to be safe," Lestrade said, seeming slightly less ill since he told the two the news.

"Good, safe is good," Sherlock said, trying to calm himself.

"There's some tea in the kitchen if you want it," John offered the D.I. "Or coffee."

"Thanks, I can get it."

John nodded and looked to Sherlock who happened to do the same at that moment. They both looked worried and tired, even though it was only around ten in the morning. Sherlock laid down on the couch, on his back, and held out his arms for the doctor to join him. As though he were programmed, John automatically rested his head on his chest and allowed Sherlock's arms to envelop him.

"What are we going to do, John?" he whispered, mostly so Lestrade wouldn't hear from the kitchen.

"We're going to get through this," he replied, propping up his head so he could look into the detective's grey eyes. "We're going to take care of each other. Remember?"

"Of course I remember. Don't be ridiculous."


	3. Chapter 3

Five minutes later, the detail arrived. It was a group of four plain-clothes officers with enough weapons on their persons to protect but not draw suspicion. They entered the flat in a polite and professional manner, being very respectful as they scanned the place. With the help of Lestrade they took every possible measure, secured the windows, and installed a security system. Sherlock and John sat on the couch, watching in awe at the whirlwind around them. In less than two hours everything was in place and the officers set up their posts, two at the front door of the building and two just outside of the flat.

"Well, that's the best we can do. This is one of the safest places in London right now," Lestrade said, approaching the men who were still trying to let what was happening sink in.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sincerely, standing up to shake his hand.

"Thanks," John smiled, only half sincere. He still wasn't one hundred percent on what was going on.

D.I. Lestrade nodded and left the building, leaving them alone in their flat for the first time since early that morning. It felt so long ago to them. Sherlock sighed and ruffled his hair with his right hand.

"I wasn't wrong," Sherlock said after a minute.

"About what?"

"That today would be interesting." "I don't think interesting is the right word."

"Isn't it?"

"No. I was thinking more along the lines of terrifying."

Sherlock smirked and cupped John's face in his hands, pulling him closer for a kiss on his forehead. "As long as you're safe it can only be interesting."

"What about you?"

"I don't matter, especially not this time."

John adapted a sad and frustrated expression. Sherlock didn't understand the sudden change, he cocked his head like a confused puppy.

"You're upset."

"Yes," John snapped.

"Why?"

"Because you say you don't matter."

"I don't. It's rational fact."

"I'm not going to even try to explain this to you," he sighed, his patience thinning.

"Please try. I'd truly like to understand. I don't like it when I don't understand."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment before losing himself in thought. It was a couple of minutes before he responded but the detective waited patiently, even though the threat of boredom was creeping up on him.

"Okay," John said. "I think I've found the right words. What it is, is that you think of everything from only your point of view and don't care what anyone else thinks."

"I don't see the connection."

He sighed and tried again. "You don't care what matters to other people. You may not matter to you but you matter to me."

"…Oh," he said, wondering how he could've overlooked something so simple.

"Yeah. Oh."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, looking at his shoes rather than John.

"It's fine," John said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder as a reassuring gesture. "It's who you are. I accept that."

He smiled at John who walked away to the kitchen. When he was out of sight, his expression dropped into a disappointed one. He was disappointed in himself a little. He tried so hard but nothing ever seemed to turn out right. First he couldn't start a relationship, then it was hard to maintain one, now Moriarty had escaped and threatened everything he had worked for. He most upset at the moment about being unable to understand John. They were two different creatures, but unfortunately that didn't stop them from falling in love. He wanted to know when his life became so very complicated.

"I'm going to put a movie in. Would you like to join me?" John asked as he walked back into the living room.

"Sure," he responded, pushing aside his thoughts to enjoy a small amount of time with his John.

They sat on the couch, pretending that there was nothing to worry about in their lives. John curled into Sherlock as he watched the movie while Sherlock watched John, both gazing upon their subjects with the same amount of interest. He watched every movement the doctor made, every expression, every noise and all of it was fascinating. John Watson was a strange, beautiful being.


	4. Chapter 4

After the movie ended, with Sherlock still unaware of what they had watched, they decided to go to bed since there was nothing else to do. They padded to the bedroom, Sherlock stripping off his clothes as he walked, leaving them uncaringly on the floor. John, walking behind him, picked them up as he dropped them and placed them in the laundry basket along with his own clothes. It was automatic for him, he felt like he'd been caring for Sherlock forever. The detective crossed the wooden floor of the bedroom to his side of the bed in just his boxers; John wore the same but with the added touch of his white undershirt. He was a far more modest man.

Sherlock climbed between the cool sheets as he watched his partner perform his nightly ritual. It had been strange to him at first, having never seen it done before, but after five months it was natural, it made sense. First, he stands himself at his side of the bed and touches the center of his chest, his fingers lingering for a few seconds. Then he reaches under his collar, pulls out a chain, and drags it over his head. A pair of dog tags dangle and clink together at the end of it. He then cradles them in the palm of his right hand, staring at them with glazed over eyes as though he were remembering something important long since forgotten. After half a minute he snaps back to reality and strokes the tags with his thumb before placing them on his end table. Last, a new addition, he climbs into bed and ends it with a kiss, Sherlocks favorite part.

It was little more than a peck, John's bottom lip catching slightly on Sherlocks top as they pulled apart, but any contact with the doctor was good. It burned his flesh with a light flush and caused his heart to pound in his chest. John turned over on his side away from Sherlock so that the detective could cuddle up behind him. They fit together perfectly and comfortably. A pale hand clutching the military doctor's chest, legs tangled together like unwound yarn, and John absently caressing the crook of Sherlocks arm that was scarred by needle marks.

"I love you," John said, already half asleep.

"You too," Sherlock mumbled into his blond hair.

* * *

When the light ripped through the shades the next morning Sherlock knew it was going to be one of those days. The moment his eyes opened he could feel his cynical irritability stirring within him. There was nothing he could do to stop it so he decided to do the next best thing: he would try to avoid John for the day. While he still held a certain amount of emotional clarity he knew John didn't deserve the abuse he would receive just by being in his presence.

Sherlock pulled himself away from John, careful not to disturb him, and walked to the closet to pull on trousers and a shirt. He grabbed his cell phone from his nightstand and glanced over at the lightly snoring John before he left the bedroom. He walked through the flat and jogged up the stairs in bare feet to the spare bedroom, where he decided he would spend the day. There were several experiments that he had been ignoring and he figured he would utilize his time.

His current project was a study on the human eye and he had a collection of them stored in a jar of formaldehyde. A colleague from a past case of his was a coroner and provided him with spare parts from organ donors as a thanks for clearing his name. Unfortunately, it was hard to reach them because the room was so packed with his belongings that an outsider would assume he was a hoarder. Boxes were piled up along the walls, the floor was littered with books, and the bed was buried under beakers and vials. Sherlock was mildly impressed with his collection but displeased with the immobility it created.

He made a makeshift walkway by pushing objects off to the sides and he cleared off the desk in the room by moving all of the items on it to the bed. He organized his space within a half hour and set to work, allowing the idea time to melt into non-existence. What he assumed were hours passed by interrupted, slides and samples scattered around the desk, when a knock on the door pulled him from his trance-like state. He glared at the wooden slab for a few seconds before bothering to respond.

"Who is it?" he called, turning his attention back to the microscope in front of him.

"Who do you think it is?" John asked, the groggy sound of sleep still in his voice. "Can I come in?"

"Go away, John," Sherlock snapped as he adjusted the resolution.

"Did I do something?"

Sherlock sighed. "No, I'm just busy. I'll be down when I'm done."

"Okay, Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock hesitated, taken aback by John's casual affection. "…You too."

He listened to John's footsteps echo away, completely put off from his work. He was definitely in one of his anti-relationship moods and he knew that if he didn't keep himself from John that the day would end badly for both of them. So, Sherlock pretended that he didn't exist and moved onto the next part of his project involving the human eye, various chemicals, and a Bunsen burner. After a few more hours of keeping to himself without interruption he was startled out of his work again, this time by his phone. It's chime sounded and he was very hopeful that he had a case. He became even more hopeful when he saw that it was a text from Lestrade. _Two texts in two days_, Sherlock thought, _maybe Lestrade will text from now on_.

Are you up for a case? _What a ludicrous question_, thought Sherlock. Still, he responded.

Always - SH

It's right up your alley. Killer didn't leave much evidence.

Sounds perfect. Address? - SH

Lestrade responded swiftly with an address that was quite out of the way but he knew where it was and what the place looked like. It was an abandoned building that was fairly well hidden and made for a decent place to commit a murder, in his personal opinion. He shut off the burner and left his experiments where they lay without a second thought. Sherlock flew down the steps three at a time and rushed to pull on his coat and scarf at the front door. He would've been able to escape the flat without John's notice if it hadn't been for the fact that he was barefoot. He walked into the bedroom, wishing he were invisible, where John was sitting on the bed jotting something down in a notebook. As if he had a Sherlock sense, he looked up as soon as he walked into the room.

"Where are you headed?" he asked, pausing in his avid scribbling.

"Out," Sherlock replied as he strode to the dresser, rummaging through it for socks.

"Out where?"

Sherlock knew that he could tell the truth or lie. The problem was, he wasn't sure which would land him in more trouble.

"On a case," he said, deciding the truth would be better in the long run.

John studied him as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks and shoes. "Need any help with the case?"

"No, you're not to leave the flat," he said shortly.

"But if I'm with you-"

"When you're with me is when you're the least safe." His tone was despondent but his tense body language displayed frustration.

Sherlock moved so he could see John who was staring at him with a concerned expression.

"I don't believe that," John said.

"You wouldn't."

Sherlock scowled at him and left the room in a huff. He had made it as far as reaching for the front door when he was jerked away from it. John had a firm grip on one of his arms and determination.

"Sherlock, listen-"

"I have a case, John. I have to go." He tried to wriggle out of John's grip but he was a lot stronger than he seemed.

"Sherlock, listen to me!" He grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat and forced the detective to look at him. "I'm sorry, okay? You're right; just don't be angry with me."

Sherlock stared at John without allowing his emotions to reach his eyes while John's eyes were pleading with him. Sherlock couldn't stand to look directly at him. John leaned in hoping for an apology kiss, but Sherlock flinched and shifted his head to the side. He turned away without glancing at John and opened the door with no reluctance. He paused before leaving, fighting the urge to turn back around.

"I'll be back later… don't wait up."

He walked out of the flat and shut the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock decided to walk rather than call a cab. He hadn't been out in a few days and needed to spend some time with fresh air and his thoughts. He followed the map engraved into in his memory bank to the crime scene Lestrade had texted him. The address was legitimate enough but he knew something was off as he approached the building. The gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he weaved through the path that led up to the house. It was thinly walled by trees and he kept walking until the trees parted and the old wooden house broke into view. The first and most important tip off to him was that there were no police cars parked anywhere. He had either been the first one on the scene or he had been tricked. _This shouldn't have happened_, he thought, _it was all because I simply trusted Lestrade. How my judgment has deteriorated._

He felt incredibly uneasy, scanning the area for anyone, for _him_, but there wasn't any sign of life around him. He started to turn around with every intention of running back to civilization when he felt something nick his neck. It was like a bee sting or a needle but when he reached up to feel what it was, nothing was there. No cut, no hole, no blood, just untouched skin.

Sherlock made to step forward but his legs were so heavy. A sudden feeling that lit his blood on fire ran through his body and his muscles tried to tense up in response but he couldn't move anything. His body was in perfect relaxation, his sight was shifting in and out of focus, and he could no longer form a complete thought. He collapsed to the dirt, unable to keep himself standing, as darkness consumed his sight and mind.

When his consciousness returned he discovered himself in a sitting position, his back painfully pressed against something tall, reaching past his head, and made of wood as far as his hands could feel. His hands were tied behind his back with coarse rope around the post, what he assumed it was, and his skull was pounding very unpleasantly. His scarf and coat were missing, his shirt and trousers ripped and nicked. He lifted his head from its slack position and had a horrible wave of dizziness and nausea wash over him. He recognized what he was feeling all too well, a feeling that stirred up some awful memories. He had been drugged.

When his sight refocused he could see a dirty, cracked window in front of him and noticed that what he was tied to was a support beam. He had been dragged inside of the dirty, old building. Sherlock realized that either he had been left to die or his captor was still nearby. He would've turned to look but he didn't want to move because he would have either vomited or passed out again.

"Good. You're awake," an Irish lilt spoke, carrying throughout the dark, dusty room. "Now the party can start."

Sherlock felt a hand slide down his waist into his trouser pocket, pulling his cell phone from its rightful place. He couldn't move, he couldn't stop him, and his frustration burned like a raging flame.

"There's someone very important missing from our celebrations, Sherlock. We wouldn't want him to be late so I'm sending him a text. I figured he'd be quicker to respond to your call than to mine, don't you think?"

Sherlock bit his lip and struggled against his binds, testing if there was spare room for escape. There wasn't.

"Now, you made it here fifteen minutes after I sent you your invitation, Lestrade is obscenely easy to pickpocket for a Detective Inspector. How long do you think it will take John if I say that you desperately need him?"

"You bastard!" he growled through gritted teeth, lunging as Jim Moriarty finally stepped into view and immediately regretting that decision.

Sherlock was surprised at what he saw. Moriarty's appearance was so drastically different from the last time they'd laid eyes on each other. He wouldn't have been completely sure it was him had it not been for the lizard-like stance and the manic glint in his eyes. His hair had grown out just past his ears and the impressive beginnings of a beard covered the lower half of his face. His clothes were far from a Westwood design, most likely because he had wanted something cheap and indistinguishable to hide himself from prying eyes. A white tee-shirt hung loosely over him and was paired with an old hooded sweatshirt that had been washed of its blue color. On his lower half, a pair of jeans two sizes too big for his frame and a dirty pair of trainers with cracks in the leather.

"We both know how deep his feelings run for you. I'm sure as soon as he reads my little message for him that his ration and good judgment will cloud. I give him ten minutes."

Sweat was dripping from every pore, in part because of the drugs and in part anxiety. He was scared, genuinely scared, an experience he hadn't felt in a long time. Times like this were exhilarating to him, even if lives were at stake, but not John's life. John's life was different. Moriarty crouched down in front of him so that they were face-to-face. Sherlock could feel his hot, damp breath and it smelt of alcohol and desperation.

"You won't be escaping this time, Sherlock. I've thought about it, running it over and over in my mind. Five months of thinking. There are no holes in this plan," he held Sherlock's head so that he was looking directly into his eyes before pressing his lips to his. Sherlock couldn't break his hold and Moriarty lingered a few seconds longer for it to be just a friendly peck on the lips.

"There is no hope for you now," he whispered after pulling away.

"Piss off," Sherlock spat causing Moriarty to recoil.

He grabbed a fistful of dark, curly hair and yanked his head to the side, making Sherlock's stomach boil and bile to rise up his throat. He had to force it back down before looking up at the man ripping his hair out.

"I don't want to hurt you," Moriarty growled. "Not physically. Don't make me."

Sherlock said nothing. The nausea was destroying him and he didn't need to be jerked around any more. Moriarty released his grip and crossed the room to a broken, red chair just in the corner of Sherlock's line of sight. The Irishman intended to watch and wait until his plan started to unfold. Sherlock found himself pleading with a God that didn't exist. _Please, God, make John stay home. He has to know that wasn't my text because if he doesn't… He has to. _Even as he thought it his stomach was curling in on itself. This "God" was a means of reassurance and hope but logic and reason spoke truth. The truth was that John thought with his heart, his shining trait and his utter downfall.


	6. Chapter 6

The seconds passed by like minutes, or it could've been the other way around. Time seemed irrelevant in a world where there was only fear. On the outside, Sherlock was built of stony indifference but on the inside he was screaming and tearing himself apart. No matter what he was feeling, he couldn't let Moriarty see it. It was the one thing Moriarty wanted and the one thing he could still keep from him. The consulting criminal stared at him, probing eyes scanning every inch of him for the slightest of changes. He searched for the reaction he needed to keep him satisfied and his brow creased when he couldn't find it.

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed but it felt like it had been a while, certainly more than ten minutes. Hope ignited within the pit of darkness inside of him; it was possible that John was upset with him enough from earlier to ignore the text. He almost smiled until his hope was extinguished as quickly as it had lighted. A grin filled with contemptuous glee crept across Moriarty's face. He had his head cocked to the side, listening, so Sherlock listened too. The sickness crept over him again when he heard it.

"Sherlock!" The muffled shout raped his ears and constricted his heart.

"He's a little late but he's arrived!" Moriarty lilted. "Now the show can start."

Sherlock looked up through the window and realized why he'd been placed there. He had the perfect view of naïve John as he walked out of the wooded path, shouting his name like a fool. Moriarty skipped up behind Sherlock, stroking the back of the detective's neck before crouching beside him. Sherlock turned and they locked eyes, one pair filled with amusement and the other with hate. Moriarty reached into his sweatshirt pocket and extracted a switchblade, the metal gleaming in the sunlight that squeezed between the dirt that clung to the window. Sherlock didn't flinch but was unsure and nervous about the criminal's intentions. Instead of slicing at his skin, as he had expected, Moriarty started to saw through the rope at his wrists, freeing him. Sherlock was hesitant, confused as to what he was up to, but threw hesitancy out of the window when he spoke.

"Run as fast as you can, Sherlock," he whispered into his ear. "Can you reach him in time?"

He scrambled to his feet, fighting back the sickness as he stumbled towards the door. It was only a few feet away but it felt so much further, especially since he was practically immobile. He used the support beams to steady himself as Moriarty skipped back to the chair he'd been sitting in and reached into the dark, dusty depths beneath it. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye, his feet shuffling closer to the door, as Moriarty pulled out a rifle that had been hidden there. The detective choked down the bile and threw himself at the door that was still a few feet away. He fell to his knees on his first attempt but he pulled himself back up and hugged the within reach door for support.

"John," he tried to call but it left his mouth as an unintelligible croak.

He could just see Moriarty loading the gun but when he cocked it Sherlock scrambled into action. John's calls penetrated the door, sounding worried and unsure.

"Sherlock?" he called, the assaulting noise drawing closer.

"John!" His hands were fumbling with the doorknob but he managed to pull it open to try again. "John! Run! It's Moriarty!"

John gazed up at Sherlock, about fifty feet between them, and relief spread over his face. His relief was quickly replaced with confusion and then shock when he noticed how horrible the detective looked. He hadn't heard what he had been saying but when he noticed Sherlock's expression he started to listen.

"Run, John! Please, run…," he pleaded.

He attempted to walk down the steps but fell down them instead, stirring up a dirt cloud when he hit the ground with a thud. John, completely ignoring Sherlock's warning, rushed to his side. His healing instinct replaced reason, even as the consulting detective tried to push him away.

"What happened to you?" he asked, assessing the situation.

"No! It's Moriarty, you need to run. John, leave me. Don't be an idiot."

"Moriarty?"

John instinctively looked to the window that Sherlock had only just been gazing out of and paled at what he saw. His army survival training kicked in and he grabbed Sherlock, fully intending to carry him to safety, when the sound of shattering glass stopped him dead in his tracks. His jaw slackened as though he were about to speak, he looked shocked and surprised. John dropped Sherlock and collapsed to the dirt beside him. His eyes were wide and hazy, a scared and pained expression etched into his face. John had wanted to scream, had thought about screaming, but no sound left him.

Sherlock's expression mirrored the doctor's, his mind wiped clean, temporarily stupid concerning what he was supposed to do. His body was shaking like he'd just been pulled out of a frozen lake as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He crawled over, a fawn on new legs, and scooped John into his arms. His free hand immediately searched John's chest and was almost sick when he felt the bullet hole, felt how close it was to the heart. Blood pumped rapidly from the wound, drowning John and the dirt beneath him in it.

"John, stay with me. Please." Sherlock choked on his words. "I won't survive long without you."

John smiled a small, sad smile, coming to terms with his fate. He gazed into Sherlock's eyes, which were wet and glistening with the threat of tears. John tried to reach up but was too weak and only made it halfway when his strength deteriorated. Sherlock grabbed his hand before it hit the ground and pressed it to his cheek. It felt cold and clammy. Emotions were exploding within the detective, a few of which he'd never experienced before. He felt a pain so severe and so deep that it made him wish for death.

"It's not real, Sherlock," John struggled, trying to make his last words good ones. "It can't be… because if it is… you'll lose yourself. I know you."

His body relaxed in his arms, as if preparing for sleep, until it fell completely limp. John felt far heavier in his arms than he actually was, Sherlock's own emotions weighing down the man he loved until it was almost impossible to keep him propped up. The doctor's eyes were open and dull. Whatever glowing spark of light, life, and joy that resided in them before had been extinguished. John was dead and left his empty shell behind as a memory and a reminder that threatened to tear Sherlock's mind apart.

Sherlock pressed John's body to his chest, unsure of how to cope. He'd dealt with death before but never like this. It was always a matter of the mind, never a matter of the heart. His brain attempted to rationalize the situation and tried to work through the stages of grief with inhuman speed. Denial was no problem, logic told him with stern conviction that John was gone, but his mind short-circuited and left him stuck on anger.

He laid John gently on the ground, as though he were still breakable. He closed his eyes out of respect and kissed his forehead out of love before dragging himself to his feet. His full attention was directed toward the building, toward Moriarty. His whole body vibrated with the boiling rage and hatred that consumed him. He appeared insane, a state of mind accented by the blood that stained his skin and shirt. The trauma had sobered him so his vision was clear and his steps didn't waver. He ran at the door with determination, still open from when he had fallen through.

"MORIARTY!" he shouted as he slowed to a stop just through the threshold, the sound permeating the house and the land it stood on.

The consulting criminal stepped from the darkness of the old house. It looked as though he had been a part of them, an empty shadow waiting to materialize. That lizard grin was plastered on his face as his head rocked side-to-side hypnotically.

"The cure for love, Sherlock. How does it feel?" he purred.

Sherlock lunged at him, his vengeance dyeing his vision red. He grasped Moriarty's hoodie with a vice-grip and held him so that their noses were almost touching.

"I. Will. Kill. You."

"I hope you do," he whispered, catching the detective off-guard.

His grip slackened as he stole a step back. "Why?"

"Because you need to be a killer. That's the master plan! Kill me, Sherlock. Kill me, please!"

Sherlock released his hold and scrambled a few feet away from him. He was right, he knew, he couldn't kill him, not in that state of mind. He couldn't allow Moriarty to win, not after what he'd just done. Sherlock had a choice to make in that moment, he could restrain Moriarty and hand him over to the police or he could let him leave. He didn't hesitate in his decision. If anyone was going to serve Jim Moriarty justice, it would be him. So, he would let him go, at least until he was ready. With one last glare at the Irish bastard, he turned to leave but Moriarty called him back.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" he called, causing Sherlock to turn back. "You forgot this."

He grabbed something from his pocket and tossed it to Sherlock who caught it reflexively. The detective looked down and saw his phone resting in his hands. He had five missed calls according to the small screen on the front. They were all from Lestrade.

"I texted your D.I. friend. Told him what happened. Told him you did it too. That's probably why he's been calling." He sighed contentedly. "It'll be so wonderful once you see the light. We can hold hands and watch the world burn."

Sherlock didn't care, he didn't react, he just pocketed the phone and left the house. When the door closed behind him Moriarty no longer existed in his mind. It was only dirt, John, and himself. He walked a funeral march down the steps and across the yard and collapsed next to John. He pulled the body close, a comforting gesture even though the body was uncomfortably cold. There was no show of emotion, he didn't move, he just sat and waited for the police to arrive.


	7. Chapter 7

The roaring sirens alerted him to their arrival but he didn't budge. He stayed on the ground, coddling John's body, even when the police had formed a circle around him. They were shouting at him as they kept inching toward him. He couldn't understand what they were saying, though, because the universe was muffled to his ears. The officers were about to make a move until a grey-haired man pushed through to the center. He shouted at them and they moved back in response. Lestrade then kneeled on the opposite side of John, trying to talk to Sherlock but he still couldn't hear. That's when the D.I. reached over and touched his arm. That one gesture of human contact brought reality crashing down on him.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?" Lestrade asked, probably for the third time, with a concerned look on his face.

"Yes. I can," Sherlock responded, his voice hoarse as though he hadn't used it in days.

"Did you kill him, Sherlock? We need to know."

"What does it matter?" he said in a dead, monotone voice.

"It matters very much."

"I might as well have."

"But you physically didn't?"

"No."

"Was it Moriarty?"

Sherlock nodded. He couldn't say anything out of fear that he would break down.

Lestrade sighed. It was solemn with undertones of relief. "That I believe."

He stood up to address the officers. "He didn't do it but I know who did. We need to be on the lookout for a Jim Moriarty. We'll have more information tomorrow when Mr. Holmes is more prepared to talk about it."

"He tells you he didn't do it and you just believe him? Look at him, he's standing over the body covered in its blood," one of the officers pointed out.

"Yes, look at him," Lestrade snapped. "I know that look. He didn't kill him."

The ambulance arrived a few seconds later, the paramedics rushing out with a body bag in hand. Sherlock gripped John tighter. They couldn't have him, not while he was still alive. Lestrade strode around to Sherlock's side and rested a comforting hand on his back.

"You have to let him go."

"Why?" he whispered, voice wavering.

"Because he's gone."

"I know!" he snapped, defending his sanity.

"C'mon, Sherlock, I'll take you home."

"I don't want to go home."

"Would you rather come back to Scotland Yard?"

Sherlock paused and gazed down at the body in his arms. It looked so incredibly pale and lifeless that every second he kept his eyes on it was like a laceration to his flesh. He brushed a hand through the dirty blond hair that he loved so much, relishing and remembering the feel. He never wanted to forget anything about the man he held. He had to leave; the many pairs of eyes that were burning into him were warning him of that.

Just before he was about to leave he remembered something that was important, something he wouldn't let them take. Sherlock reached into the collar of John's shirt and wrapped his fingers around a metal chain. He pulled it carefully over John's head as if he would disturb him and slid the metal dog tags out from under the fabric. He piled the metal in his right hand, brushing over it with his thumb to wipe away the blood and feel the texture of the indented words on his skin. In a final goodbye, Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's and spoke his last words to him, even if he couldn't hear them.

"I love you," he whispered so no one else could hear. "And I hope you died knowing that."

He placed the body on the ground with care and pulled himself up to stand on two feet. His own body felt like lead and the scene around him seemed slow and fuzzy like he were in a constricting dream. Sherlock was able to untangle the mess of chain and, with one last, soul-tearing look at John's body, slip the tags around his own neck, stuffing the tags themselves beneath his once white shirt. Everything was weighing heavily down on him, his thoughts, his feelings, even the air around him.

Lestrade, standing awkwardly, wasn't sure how to console a man like Sherlock. He tried to by draping an arm around his shoulders as a comforting gesture but Sherlock shrugged him off. He didn't want to be touched, he barely wanted to live. He couldn't allow himself to look back again as the two walked toward Lestrade's police car. He knew he would see them loading John into a body bag like a sack of meat. Sherlock couldn't have that image carved into his mind, he wouldn't last a day.

The D.I. led him to the vehicle and motioned for him to climb into the back seat. Sherlock popped open the door and sat in the car without any resistance, he didn't see the point. He didn't see the point in anything in that moment. Lestrade hopped in the driver's seat and drove away from the dreadful crime scene. They rode in silence with a thick sadness suffocating the both of them. The drive wasn't long, but it felt like it had been. Every time Lestrade tried to open his mouth to say something he was cut short by a gaze from Sherlock that could cut through steel. It wasn't long before Lestrade was pulling up in front of 221b Baker Street, one tenant short.

"Okay," Lestrade began, realizing that any show of sympathy wasn't going to go over well. "I'm going to go talk to your landlady. You stay in the car."

Sherlock didn't bother to reply as he stared absently out of the window. Lestrade accepted that as meaning he would obey his orders. The D.I. left the car and walked up to the building, hesitating as he was about to knock on the door. He pushed through it and knocked, only waiting a minute before Mrs. Hudson answered the door with a cheery disposition. Lestrade started speaking and Sherlock watched with a small amount of satisfaction as her expression fell. He could see the tears collecting in her eyes and watching her suffer alleviated a miniscule fraction of his pain.

Lestrade continued to explain and the more he spoke the harder she cried. It was when she turned those glistening, hurt-filled, doe eyes on Sherlock that he had to look away. He didn't want to see her concern or her pity. It meant nothing. He was all alone again and no amount of sad glances or condolences was going to fix that. Sherlock curled himself up into a ball on the seat with his head resting against the cool glass of the window. He wanted to disappear, to die, to do something other than go up to that flat.

There was a loud pop as the door Sherlock had been leaning against opened. He righted himself quickly before gravity had the chance to pull him out of the car in a less-than-graceful manner. Lestrade gazed down at him, examining his mental and emotional state. Sherlock refused to look him in the eye. He figured if he ignored him he would leave him in peace. Unfortunately, his plan didn't work out that way.

"Let's go, Sherlock," the silver-haired D.I. said, forcing Sherlock out of the car with the tone of his words.

Sherlock considered staying in the car or running but he was more dignified than that. He stepped out of the vehicle, deadpan expression and head held high. His blood-soaked shirt was clinging to his chest so that the outline of John's dog tags was visible over his heart. Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's back, leading him over to front steps of his building. Mrs. Hudson was staring at him with those mournful eyes that made him cringe. He walked forward, meaning to go straight to his flat and avoid all of the unwanted human contact but his landlady had other ideas. As soon as he was in arms reach of her, she clung onto him for dear life. She had a strong vice grip for someone her age.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry," Mrs. Hudson sobbed into his chest.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said flatly.

"I can't believe this happened."

"Mrs. Hudson, please," Sherlock continued monotonously.

"Oh, Sherlock, I-"

"STOP!" Sherlock shouted.

He lost control of his feelings in that moment. All of the rage, pain, and sadness he'd been hiding flooded into his expression. His emotions were gone as quickly as they had come, forced back behind a wall where he didn't have to feel them.

"Stop it, Mrs. Hudson," he tried again, calmly. "I am going to go up to my flat and I wish to be left alone."

"But, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson started but Lestrade stopped her before she could continue.

"Mrs. Hudson, let him go." He glanced at Sherlock sadly but with understanding.

Sherlock pried his landlady off of him and walked past the two to open the door to the building. He stepped inside quickly and shut the door behind him just so he could escape the eyes burning into him. He sighed and glanced up, freezing at the sight of two men standing outside of his door. They were two of the four men who were assigned to protect John.

The mere sight of them caused his anger to reignite. _It was their fault_, he thought, _they should've been doing their job_. That one thought sparked an explosion within him and the cool ration he usually maintained melted away. He launched himself at one of the officers, grabbing him and dragging him down the stairs. The other officer hesitated but, when he realized that Sherlock was actually a threat, he leapt into action. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso and attempted to pull him off.

The door burst open and Lestrade charged through, an immediate reaction to hearing the commotion on the other side. He examined the scene and it only took him a few seconds to figure out what had happened. The D.I. walked over and easily pulled Sherlock off of the defenseless officer, restraining his arms behind his back. Sherlock was struggling against him, his eyes wide and alive with rage.

"THIS IS THEIR FAULT! THEY SHOULD'VE BEEN PROTECTING HIM!"

"It's not their fault," Lestrade tried to reason.

"We didn't even know he'd left!" the attacked officer said.

"He didn't leave through the door," the other officer confirmed.

"THAT DOESN'T MATTER! IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU HE WOULD STILL BE ALIVE! IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU HE WOULD…" he trailed off, finishing the sentence in his head. _He would still be with me. _

Sherlock slumped forward in defeat. If Lestrade hadn't been holding him he would've collapsed on the floor.

"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked.

"Am I okay?" Sherlock laughed maddeningly. "What kind of a question is that?"

"Maybe I shouldn't leave you alone tonight," Lestrade said worriedly.

"I'll be fine," he said, returning to his detached state.


	8. Chapter 8

He tore himself from Lestrade's grasp and dragged his feet up the steps to his flat. No one spoke, no one tried to stop him, but when he stood in front of the door he hesitated. He knew what lay on the other side and he wasn't sure if he was prepared for it. To see everything just as it had been left, all of the imprints of John staining the flat, taunting him, hurt to think about. With his hand on the handle, he considered walking away. He could just leave and never return, which was a wistful thought but not a valid option. The crowd at his back was expecting him to go inside so he ripped open the door like a band-aid, walked in, and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock kept his eyes squeezed shut childishly, as if not seeing it would make it untrue. He rested his back against the door, stealing deep, calming breaths. Slowly, he started to open his eyes, narrow slits at first, opening gradually until he could take in the whole scene. The reality of it hit him immediately and wrenched the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air as he slid to the floor. He curled up into the fetal position, hugging his knees to his chest as he looked around. Just beside him was John's coat, hanging limply from the wooden rack, never to be worn again. Dishes that were in the process of being cleaned by John sat in the sink. Even the air around him bore his scent.

There was evidence strewn everywhere of his life but he was no longer living it. All of the emotions he pushed down, trying not to feel, cracked open and saturated every inch of him. It caused a pain so overwhelming that he doubled over, feeling it as if it had been a physical knife thrust into his heart.

Even in his broken state, he was always thinking. He thought of those on the other side of the door he rested against and how they would react to his cries. Sherlock didn't want them bursting in there, offering help. He wanted to mourn alone. He pushed himself up onto shaky legs and managed to stumble into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. It was unfortunate for him that he hadn't thought too clearly. The bedroom was the worst place he could've gone because so much of _him_ was there. Turning around to face the strewn clothes and disheveled bed only multiplied his agony. It forced him to realize that he would go to bed alone and wake up alone; a thought that was hard to process and hard to bear.

His sorrow had reached its peak, shredding his insides, clawing to escape until it tore him apart in a chilling wail. It was a deep, primal, ear-splitting noise, that could raise hairs, chill bones, and shatter hearts. In a single note, he slit open his soul and exposed it to the world.

The tears broke the surface, swimming in his eyes before falling down the hills of his cheeks, and the poor, broken detective crumpled into a ball on his bedroom floor. His thin, fragile frame was shaking from the sharp sobs and he stayed on the floor long after there were no tears left to be shed. Soon enough, he stopped moving altogether, staring at the wall across from him blankly. It was plain, no wallpaper, but his eyes found the imperfections and traced them as a task to stave off madness.

The flat was screaming in unheard mourning but when the whispers started they cut through the thunderous nothing. They started out soft and unintelligible but it was a constant stream of unwanted noise flooding through Sherlock's head. He plugged his ears, hoping to muffle the sound, but there wasn't any change. _Impossible_, he thought. He couldn't think of a reason at first as to why the volume wouldn't change but, when it hit him, the pace of his heart beat quickened. _It's in my head._

That thought scared him more than anything; his mind was all he had left. The whispering never differed in volume but it didn't stop as Sherlock covered his head with his arms, humming to drown them out. He was on the verge on another breakdown when it stopped abruptly and silence cut through him again. He sighed in relief until he remembered the sadness and a mix of guilt and grief constricted his heart.

Sherlock picked himself up off the ground with difficulty and stared at the bed. Sherlock's side was left unmade, unable to bother with straightening the covers each morning, while John's side was fixed but wrinkled from where he'd sat earlier that day. He almost reached out to touch the spot but caught himself before he did. He didn't want to ruin it; he wanted to leave John's presence as noticeable as possible.

Sherlock's side of the bed appeared open and welcoming and he was starting to realize just how drained he felt. He kicked off his shoes and socks, removed his trousers, all in a trance-like state. However, when he unbuttoned his shirt he was jolted back to reality by a warm pair of dog tags resting against his chest. He had already forgotten about the stolen piece of John that hung around his neck. He reached up to touch them with hesitance, as if they would burn him, but ended up grasping them tightly with his right hand. The rutted metal was rough against his palm, the edges digging into his skin as he clutched them tighter. He was staring off into the distance, remembering the days events as if it were something long since forgotten. After a few seconds, he snapped out of it and slid the metal chain over his head. Sherlock gazed at the tags one more time before setting them safely on his nightstand.

He pulled off his shirt, picking up from where he'd stopped, and dropped it in a wrinkled, bloody pile on the floor. It was one thing that stayed normal, he wasn't going to exert effort by placing them in the laundry basket, but an idea hit him as he stared at the clothes on the floor. It was a comforting, yet masochistic, idea.

He glanced at the corner of the room where the laundry basket sat, holding the dirty laundry from the past week. Without a thought, he started digging through it until he closed a hand around what he'd wanted. It was John's striped jumper, the one he'd worn just a day before. He pressed the fabric to his nose, causing his heart to flutter and sink when he found it still smelled of him. Automatically, he dragged the clothing over his head and pushed his arms through it. It didn't fit quite right but it fit well enough. He inhaled the scent, treasuring it while it lasted, as he climbed into bed, careful not to disturb the other side. He settled in and looked to the empty space beside him that left him with a hollow chill. The pain of his absence was still that of a thousand twisting knives. He turned around and faced the wall, pretending he wasn't alone in the large, cold bed so that he would be able to sleep.

Sherlock slipped effortlessly into unconsciousness, which was slightly disconcerting to him because he had only just lain down. Soon after sleep, he slipped into a dream that felt too real, yet too impossible to be real. His mind concocted an image of himself walking through darkness, no floors or walls visible. He felt each step as it lifted and hit whatever was solid beneath his feet.

He kept walking, there wasn't much else to do in the midst of nothing, for what felt like ages. It seemed as though he had gotten nowhere when a flickering light appeared on what distinguished itself as the horizon. It was so bright in the midst of pure darkness that even that tiny light burned his eyes. He followed the light on instinct alone, hoping to escape the darkness.

He walked for hours with small increments of change to the light's size but that small change is what kept him going. The light had doubled in size before he noticed that it was a rectangular doorway. It was so close so Sherlock ran, charging toward an escape from the color-sucking blackness. The doorway was within a few feet when he had to stumble to a stop. A figure stood in the doorway, a familiar silhouette, features shrouded in shadows due to the back lighting. He knew that frame, the slightly ruffled hair, the cable knit jumper.

"John?" he whispered. Just speaking the name caused him to wince in pain.

"How could you do this to me, Sherlock?" John asked in a lifeless monotone.

"What do you mean? What did I do?" Sherlock, squinting into the light to try and see John's face.

"How could you?" John sounded so sad, so disappointed, as the darkness was suddenly bathed in light as if someone had flipped a switch.

Sherlock shielded his eyes from the blinding light. He had to blink a few times before he could see again but what he saw almost made him retch. John stood before him, standing in a wasteland of white rather than blackness, with pale skin that was tinged slightly green. His grayish brown eyes were dark and sunken in. He was clutching his heart as blood pumped through the cracks between his fingers. He dropped his hand to reveal a gaping gunshot wound before he repeated himself.

"How could you?"

"But I—"

Sherlock noticed smoke billowing in front of him and followed it down to its origin. His own right arm was extended, gun in hand with smoke emanating from the barrel.

"No," he whispered, horrified.

He was so scared that he almost didn't noticed the other warm hand that was gripping the gun on top of his own. Sherlock turned his head to the right to find Moriarty standing closely at his side. He had a cat-like grin on his face as he watched John bleed out in front of him. Moriarty started to speak but whatever he was saying left his mouth in unintelligible whispers. Sherlock dropped the gun and stepped away.

"John, I didn't," he said, pleading with the dead man.

"It was your fault."

"No…"

"I'm dead because of you."

"NO!" Sherlock screamed in anguish, waking himself up with the startling noise.


	9. Chapter 9

His body shook as he lay in sweat-soaked sheets, waiting for his heart rate to even out. Tears threatened to fall again but he forced them back, swallowing his sadness and guilt. He cried once, he was done crying. When he was more calm and rational, he stretched out on the bed, still facing the wall. He had no intention of moving. He had been hurting for long enough that the pain he felt evened out into a dull hum.

Everything was so different. The world adapted a darker tint as if storm clouds rolled in when John died. Sherlock realized, as he stared at the unresponsive, uninteresting wall, that he was starting to feel nothing at all. He couldn't figure out if that was good or bad, especially in the long run. At the moment, he was biased, the numbness was a relief, but would he feel the same in a week or a month? He wasn't sure.

He spent a lot of time mulling it over as he wasted the day in bed, only moving to use the bathroom. He had no energy or will to do anything else. The phone rang a few times but he didn't answer. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson attempted to talk to him through the door but he didn't want to hear it. Three days passed in the same fashion until D.I. Lestrade felt like he'd had enough. The D.I. showed up on the night of the fourth day and pounded on Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock, open up!" he shouted, agitation poisoning his tone.

Sherlock didn't reply. He never did.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock heard him call as his footsteps echoed away.

Sherlock knew that Lestrade wouldn't leave it there and, sure enough, his footsteps returned a few minutes later. The D.I. didn't call out for him again; instead Sherlock could hear the sound of scraping metal and the rattle of the doorknob being thrust back and forth. His heart sank when it hit him that Mrs. Hudson had given him a key. Sherlock buried himself in the covers of his bed as he heard the door crash open and the heavy footfalls of Lestrade stomping his way into the flat. The D.I. walked straight to the bedroom and paused in the doorway.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said softly.

He still didn't respond, hoping his child-like hiding would prove successful.

Lestrade walked further into the room, adjusting to a gentle demeanor. He decided he needed to acclimatize to Sherlock's state of mind. He approached the situation as a parent would to their child.

"I know you're under there," he said accusingly.

When the consulting detective didn't budge, Lestrade ripped the covers away from him. The sight was almost pathetic. A grown man curled up in bed, wearing clothes almost a week old with afflicted, red eyes from hours of crying. Even though he was exposed, Sherlock refused to look up. Lestrade knew people, knew grief, and could see how deeply cut Sherlock was. He sat next to him on the bed while he thought of the right words to say.

"I know this is tough," Lestrade started.

"I don't want to hear it," Sherlock mumbled into his pillow.

"You don't have much of a choice," he replied. "I know this is tough but wasting away in bed isn't going to help or change anything. It's been four days and I know if I hadn't interfered you would've starved to death."

"What does it matter?"

"It matters a lot. It matters so much, in fact, that I've taken drastic measures and called your brother."

Sherlock shot up in bed, John's jumper wrinkled and twisted around his body. His eyes hardened with fear, anger, and disbelief. The way he stared at Lestrade almost forced the D.I. to stand up and back away.

"Why would you call my brother?" his voice cracked, tinged with incredulousness.

"You need help and support. There was no one else I knew to call," he replied calmly and clearly, as if it would help him understand better.

"I would've preferred it if you had let me die."

"You don't mean that."

"I do," Sherlock snapped. "When will he be here?"

"In the morning. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I had no other options."

Sherlock shot a glare at Lestrade before his face crumpled, residual sadness breaking through. Lestrade became visibly panicked, unsure of what to do. There was no consoling him, not in any way that he was familiar with, so he could only stay and hope it would pass. He almost sighed in relief when Sherlock composed himself moments later. The detective hid behind his mask of apathy to disguise himself from prying eyes. Breaking down on his own was one thing; breaking down in front of Lestrade was out of the question.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock barked.

"I'm not leaving until Mycroft gets here. I left you alone once, I won't do it again."

Sherlock sighed and flopped back down, attempting to pull the covers up around him but couldn't. Lestrade had a tight grip on them to prevent him from burying himself again. A frustrated noise left him as he abandoned the covers, curling up into a ball for alternative warmth. A scowl was plastered on his face as he hid himself in the striped jumper.

"Come on, Sherlock. Get up. I know you haven't eaten since the day of."

"If you're going to stay, could you please do it without bothering me?" he hissed.

"I won't let you kill yourself," the D.I. replied seriously. "Now, get up! You're like a child, I swear."

"And you would know all about that, would you?"

"I should hope so, I have five of them. It's how I put up with you so well."

Sherlock sat up, staring at Lestrade. "So, why are you here instead of with them?"

"I was with them and then I came here. This isn't just about my job, I'm genuinely concerned. I'm ordering in. I'm not going to let you stay here and sulk but I'll give you some space."

Lestrade left the bedroom but not before pulling the covers clean off Sherlock's side of the bed. He groaned, curling up into a tighter ball, considering Lestrade's words carefully. He thought for a few minutes and decided he wouldn't win with the D.I. He wasn't going to leave him alone. The downtrodden detective dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of trousers. He left the jumper on, in spite of the fact that it was quite dirty, and was about to leave when the whispers from the previous night hit him like a bus.

He staggered back, startled by the volume of the noise. It was like the last time but multiplied by two. He clutched his ears, looking wildly for a source as his eardrums pounded, close to bursting. Sherlock glanced toward his nightstand and the voices started to define themselves. They began to melt together into one male voice that echoed because it wasn't whole. He couldn't make out what it was saying but he knew where it was directing him.

When his pale fingers wrapped around the dog tags at his bedside, the voice stopped. He gazed down at John's name, cursing his apparent insanity. Whatever was causing the voice within him wasn't going to let him forget the pain. Sherlock assumed all of those years of drugs had finally caught up with him. He hung the tags around his neck, stuffing them under the jumper, and walked out into the living room where the D.I. was sitting.

"See, was that so hard?" Lestrade asked, brightening when Sherlock entered the room.

He didn't reply, he didn't mention that he was losing his mind, he just dropped into a chair and stared with a blank expression.

"It'll get easier, Sherlock," Lestrade said, facing the detective as he leaned forward in his chair.

"Will it?" he asked doubtfully.

"It won't ever be okay but the hurt and sadness will ease."

"When? How? I've never dealt with feelings like this before."

"Just pretend it never happened," Lestrade replied with a dark laugh.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open for a second. A comment like that wasn't in character, as far as he knew him. Then again, how well did he really know Lestrade? The grey-haired man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking apologetic and shocked.

"Sorry, that came out wrong."

Sherlock paused before answering. "It's fine."

"Really, I-"

"How did John's family take it?" Sherlock interrupted, changing the subject.

"What?" Lestrade asked, sitting up straight with a startled and bemused expression.

"John's family. You did tell them, right?"

"Of course. His parents and…" he trailed off, struggling to remember something.

"And Harry," Sherlock finished, eyeing him strangely.

"Yes. And Harry. His brother."

"Sister," Sherlock corrected, his suspicion swelling. "Are you sure you called them?"

"I did. My mind has just been preoccupied with you and other cases," he said assuredly, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Sherlock nodded. "If you say so, Detective Inspector."


	10. Chapter 10

"Er, why don't we just watch some telly," he replied, refusing to look Sherlock in the eye.

Lestrade plucked the remote from the coffee table and turned the television on, flipping through the channels. He stopped when he reached an old football game that peaked his interest. It was one that he'd seen before but he remembered that it was a good one. He set the remote back on the table, just in case Sherlock wanted to change the channel even though Lestrade knew he wouldn't care. They sat and watched in silence for long enough that they both jumped when a knock on the door sliced through their peace. Sherlock stood up to answer it but Lestrade motioned for him to sit back down.

"It's just the food. I'll get it."

Sherlock dropped back into the chair and glanced up as Lestrade passed by him. He rested his chin on clasped hands, letting his mind drift away from reality. There was something off about the D.I. and it was so subtle. It could've also been nothing, he conceded to himself. A slip of the tongue, a stressed mind, Sherlock wasn't completely sure. He didn't feel like he was in a right mind to be deducing anything accurately. He was, after all, going mad.

The loud crinkle of paper cut through his thoughts, as Lestrade traded money for the stuffed paper bag. They exchanged as few words as possible before he shut the door and walked back into the room. He glanced at the table in the kitchen, cluttered with dirty dishes and old experiments, and then at Sherlock. The grungy detective was deep in thought and Lestrade almost didn't want to disturb him.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" he asked, half-listening.

Lestrade started to say something but stopped himself before any sound left him. He kept his thoughts to himself as he set the bag on the coffee table and removed its contents. He spread everything out, a choice of sandwiches from a small Italian restaurant, covering the space of the table that wasn't cluttered with papers. He grabbed one for himself and sat down, unraveling the sandwich from the protective wax paper.

"Sherlock, eat something."

"Hm? Oh." Sherlock seemed disappointed, having been pulled from his thoughts for nothing more than food.

He grabbed the one closest to him, tore it open, and stared at it. Just looking at food made him feel sick but he assumed that it might've been his emotions or extreme hunger affecting him. He glanced at Lestrade, who was staring at him expectantly, and surrendered, tearing a small bite from it. When he swallowed the first bite, his stomach roared for more. The noise startled him but he appeased his hunger by taking another bite. Sherlock polished off his sandwich within a few minutes but that was nothing compared to how quickly Lestrade inhaled his.

"Feel any better?" he asked, crumpling the wax paper in his fist.

"I feel less hungry," Sherlock stated, tossing his paper onto the coffee table carelessly.

"Well, you keep the extra. Think of it as stockpiling. You won't have to do any shopping for a few days."

"…Thanks."

"No problem."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair as he and Lestrade passed the hours by watching mindless television and half partaking in mindless chatter. As the night dragged on into the beginnings of the next day, Lestrade was the first to fall sleep. His head lolled to the side, resting on his right shoulder with a small amount of saliva glistening in the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock only stayed awake because his thoughts kept him occupied. He pulled the tags from the jumper, turning them over in his hand, remembering the short time he and John had together. He remembered the day they first met and smiled for a fraction of a second. John was an unexpected human being, so stupid and smart at the same time. The small amount of joy he felt from the memories relaxed him enough to lull him to sleep.

It felt like as soon as he closed his eyes, he was wide awake again. He groaned, attempting to move to a more comfortable position but there was a pressure on his chest that held him down. He squirmed underneath it but the pressure just moved with him. He forced open his eyes to a burry room, unable to see what was on top of him for a moment. It was a mess of color, blended together like a child's painting. He blinked a couple of times, his vision clearing with each blink, until the room shifted into focus. It was his bedroom, he concluded, and he was lying under the covers of his bed.

He tried to stretch out but his right side was pinned to the bed. He glanced down to where he felt the weight on him and discovered a head with short, dirty blonde hair resting on his chest. His heart raced, fear freezing his blood, because he knew that hair. He reached up with his free hand, brushing his fingers through it, almost brought to tears because it felt exactly as he remembered. He brushed his hand through it again and again, enjoying the feel of each strand between his fingers.

"Mm. Sherlock, what're you doing?" a voice asked, muffled from being spoken into Sherlock's abdomen.

Sherlock stopped mid brush at the voice that soothed his ears. A voice he was sure he'd never hear again. "John?"

"What? What time is it?" he asked, propping his chin up on Sherlock's chest so he could see him.

Sherlock's eyes started to water when he stared into John's grayish brown ones. They looked up at him with tired affection, still glazed over from sleep. Sherlock reached out with a shaky hand and touched John's face. It felt solid, smooth, and strangely cool to his touch. He brushed the tips of his fingers across John's cheek to make sure it was real. His emotions were overloading him again, like frying an already worn out circuit board. John frowned, his brow furrowed, when he saw the first tear roll down Sherlock's face.

"Hey, are you okay?" John asked, concern consuming his features.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, smiling as his voice cracked. "I am now. It's nice to see you again."

"What are you going on about?" John asked, moving back on to his pillow so he could view him more comfortably. "Are you feeling all-"

Sherlock cut him off by grabbing his white shirt and dragging him into a kiss. It was the most passionate and expressive kiss he had ever allowed himself to give. His body was pressed to John's, his fingers entangled in that dirty blonde hair, but John was so cold. He was like a human ice cube, almost too cold to touch because it burned. It didn't click with Sherlock in that moment how strange it was, that John should've given off body heat or at least been warmed by the covers that surrounded him.

John was caught off guard and unsure what to do with his hands. They flailed in the air, searching for something to hold on to, until they decided to thread themselves into his dark, curly hair. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat at the icy fingers on his scalp. The kiss seemed to last a lifetime but it still ended too soon for Sherlock. John gazed at him with shock and awe.

"Wow," was all he managed in a husky, breathless tone.

Sherlock stared at John, expression intense. "I love you, John. You know that right? Please, tell me you know that."

"Of course I do," John laughed. "I love you too."

The detective sighed in relief, pulling John in for another, softer kiss. Those were the only words he needed to hear. They eased his soul just enough to dull the pain. He knew then that the words weren't real but he knew John well enough to know that they were true. He had pieced together why John was so strangely cold. It was because he was dreaming.

Sherlock held out his arms for dream John, inviting him to return to his sleep. John accepted happily, resting his head over Sherlock's heart, his skin like cold metal, and wrapped an arm around his waist. Sherlock closed his eyes in preparation to sleep, or wake up, he wasn't sure, but just as he was comfortable to drop back into consciousness, John perked up with one last message.

"You need to remember, Sherlock. I never left."

Sherlock woke with a start, almost falling out of his chair. The sun was bright, Lestrade was snoring like a chainsaw being fed through a wood chipper, and his neck hurt. He winced as he twisted his head from side-to-side to work out the knot. He dragged a hand from his neck down the side of his face and paused when he felt how wet his face was. He pulled his hand away, staring down at the glistening drops that covered it, and knew that he'd been crying in his sleep. He began to wipe away the tears on his face when a knock on the door made him jump.

He hesitated, looking to Lestrade, who was still sound asleep, until the second knock prompted him to stand. He walked to the door and opened the door just enough to see who was on the other side. Sherlock glanced through the gap to see the disapproving stare of his older brother.

The man before him stood with a straight posture, holding an umbrella under his left arm. His suit was tailored to fit him perfectly and was probably worth more than the average human life. Sherlock opened the door opened the door wider as Mycroft stared down his nose at his little brother, a sullied, sniveling boy. His hair was matted, his visage disheveled, and he was sure there was a pungent odor rolling off of him in waves.

"Little brother," he said politely. Sherlock was a sad, broken mess and he would care for him. It was his job and he always stepped up to do it out of love.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied shortly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You are utterly filthy. How long has it been since you washed yourself?" he asked, walked past Sherlock and into the flat.

"A few days," he mumbled, shutting the door and turning around to face him.

Sherlock appeared so small to Mycroft, smaller than he had ever looked before. He was a lost little boy, emotionally learning to stand on his own two feet. When Sherlock looked him in the eye in that moment, Mycroft knew how much he really needed him. His older brother's expression softened enough to be noticeable. Sherlock caught the change but he wasn't sure what about him was suddenly different. He eyed him suspiciously, arms still crossed, as his brother inspected his flat.

"Hmm, it's good to see that Detective Inspector Lestrade is doing his job diligently," Mycroft said, stopping in front of the D.I.

He grabbed his umbrella from under his arm and whacked Lestrade on the leg with it. The sleeping man was startled out of his slumber from the throbbing pain in his shin. His face contorted into a combination of surprise and agony. He reached down, rubbing the affected area while glaring up at Mycroft. The look he received in return was one of smug superiority.

"Thanks for that, Mycroft," he grumbled, standing from his chair as he fixed his wrinkled clothes.

"It's no problem, Gregory. Just doing my part."

Lestrade sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Thanks for coming down on such short notice."

"I would've been here sooner if work hadn't been so dire. I'm lucky I was able to wrap it up as quickly as I did. Thank you, Gregory, for keeping an eye on him."

"It was no trouble. I just hope you can help him."

"I'm standing right here," Sherlock whined.

"We know, little brother. Your scent makes you quite noticeable," Mycroft snapped before turning back to Lestrade. "Thank you again."

"You're welcome," he said, walking toward the front door. "Good luck, Sherlock."

The Holmes brothers watched as Lestrade walked out the door, shutting it behind him, and then turned to each other in unison. Mycroft looked Sherlock over, assessing the situation. There was something almost like a grimace on his face.

"First things first, you need to shower."

"That's the most important thing right now?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"Now," Mycroft demanded.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I am an adult an-"

Mycroft shot him that look. The stern one their mother would give them when her patience was at its breaking point. Mycroft learned well from her. Sherlock cursed and pulled the jumper from his torso, throwing it at the chair Lestrade had occupied. He ripped the trousers from his lower half as he walked, leaving them behind on the floor. He made a tantrum of it, huffing his way to the bathroom and slamming the door when he entered his destination.

"Stop being such a child, Sherlock," Mycroft called from the living room, where he had helped himself to a chair.

All he received in response was a loud thump on the bathroom door from Sherlock punching it. He both hated and loved his brother; he just wasn't sure which emotion was stronger. He rested his bare back against the cool door for a moment, losing himself in thought. There was something at the forefront of his mind about the dream he'd had, something John said. It didn't sit well with him, making him uneasy, but he didn't have the chance to figure it out because Mycroft interrupted him again.

"I don't hear any water running!" he called, his voice muffled through the door.

Sherlock sighed, almost sounding like a growl, and turned on the water. He waited until the water was hot, steam rolling from the shower, and stripped off his boxers. He left them crumpled on the floor, placed the dog tags on the sink counter, and stepped in. The water soaked his hair, dampening and straightening the curls, and washed the dirt and excess blood from his body. It did everything it was supposed to, he noticed, but only visually. He couldn't feel the water.

He was curious and a little afraid as he watched the drops trail down his skin, leaving streaks, covering every inch of him but he didn't feel a single one. He turned to the white tiled wall of the shower, stroking it to see if he could still feel at all and was relieved to feel the cool, slick surface beneath his fingers. The question was, why not the water?

He touched his hair and it didn't feel wet, just flattened to his head like it knew it should be wet despite evidence to the contrary. He stared down at the drain as the blood-stained water and grains of dirt swirled around it. Panic was setting in as he started to worry about his own sanity again. He scrambled from the shower and turned off the water with alarming speed. He peered down at his skin to see the water sliding down his body, pooling on the bathmat at his feet, but he still couldn't feel it. Something was very wrong and he couldn't explain it.


	11. Chapter 11

He calmed himself by taking several deep breaths, attempting to figure out a rational explanation. When he couldn't think of one, he only became more frustrated. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see what he couldn't feel, and felt around for a towel. He stepped in the direction of the towel rack on the wall, his groping hand closing around the plush fibers for a dry towel. The feel of the warm, soft fabric bunched in his palm was almost enough to force a sigh of relief. The sound was pushed back down and replaced by a visible shift, his muscles relaxing, as he dragged the towel from the rack and dried himself off with it. It felt strange, drying off when he already felt dry, but the towel soaked through from the water it collected. It had to exist. The water had to be there. The problem was him.

He raked the supposedly damp towel through his hair, catching the stray droplets, before wrapping around his waist. Sherlock grabbed the dog tags from the counter, slipping them over his head as he walked toward the door, hand outstretched. His fingertips had just brushed the metal of the doorknob when sadness and a disjointed feeling hit him with the power of a fifteen foot wave. He missed the doorknob and hit the door, sliding to the ground as his vision blurred and his thoughts turned incoherent. He stomach churned from the overwhelming misery, a deep-seeded depression burning through him like a rampant flame. He didn't think he could feel any worse until the whispers started again.

The noise warped nightmarishly in his head as it attempted to communicate through the haze. He held his head, rocking back and forth, willing everything to stop. Tears were streaming down his face because his whole body hurt, but he couldn't feel them. The voice attempted to grab control of his mind; it wanted him to do something but it was saying nothing.

He tugged at fistfuls of his hair, scratching at his scalp until he screamed loud enough for the whole building to hear his agony. Within the next second, the door he was leaning against opened, causing him topple to the floor through the threshold. He curled into the fetal position, his towel managing to stay in place. He looked up, shaking a little from hard sobs, to see Mycroft looking ill with worry.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" he asked, voice wavering.

He tried to open his mouth to respond but no sound left him. It was hard to move, his body felt heavy. Darkness pulsated at the edge of his vision. He was about to black out.

"Sherlock," Mycroft tried again.

Sherlock could still move his eyes and looked up at his brother, to show he could hear and understand but not respond. Mycroft picked up on his message, immediately scooping his little brother into his arms and carrying him to the couch. Mycroft strained to hold up his weight but his adrenaline was doing most of the heavy lifting. He rested Sherlock's limp body on the cushions and knelt next to him, trying to provoke a vocal response.

"What happened? What did you do?"

Sherlock strained to hear. It was so hard to hear through the whispering.

"You have to stay conscious, Sherlock," Mycroft demanded, as if his consciousness could obey orders. Sherlock's mind quieted as his vision fizzled to blackness.

"Stay with me!" Mycroft shouted, sounding like just another whisper to Sherlock.

Sherlock knew he couldn't fight it. He relaxed his body and let the darkness take him. _Anything to quiet the voices and numb the pain, _he thought just before unconsciousness captured him.

A sharp, cold pain shocked Sherlock into consciousness. His breath was stolen from his lungs for a second and he gasped like a fish on land to get it back. He glanced down to see his mostly naked body covered in ice cubes fresh from the freezer, then up to see Mycroft holding the empty trays. He would've glared if he could've moved his face at all. The shock momentarily paralyzed him.

"What… was that… for?" Sherlock eventually sputtered, teeth chattering from the chill.

"I couldn't let you fall unconscious. Not in that state," Mycroft replied, setting the trays on the coffee table.

"Did… you have to… use ice?" He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.

"Nothing else was working. This was the last resort before I drove you to the hospital.

Sherlock shuddered, and not from the cold. He used to be indifferent to hospitals until he was shot, then he hated them. When John's death was added onto that, hospitals were just a depressing place for him.

"What happened to me?" he asked, his body numbing to the cold.

"That's what I'd like to know," Mycroft replied, pulling a chair up to sit beside the couch.

"I don't kn-"

Sherlock paused mid-sentence and looked down at the ice cubes on his chest. They started to melt from the body heat and he could feel it. He could feel the cold water sliding across his skin to the pool forming beneath him on the couch. His mouth remained open as if he were going to finish his sentence at any moment. He touched it to make sure he wasn't imagining it. The water coated his fingers, causing them to glisten in the light. He could feel it. He could feel again. _What is wrong with me?_

"Sherlock, are you feeling okay?"

He stared at his brother, about to lie and say yes but he stopped himself. Tears formed again, eyes aching from the crying he'd done earlier. He tried to compose himself; he didn't want to cry in front of his brother. He needed to be composed in front of him, to prove himself to him. He swallowed back his tears, the pressure of them still close to the surface.

"Have you been using again?" Mycroft asked bluntly.

That comment helped Sherlock to disguise his sadness with anger. "What kind of a question is that?"

"It seemed like you had taken something. Perhaps, while you were in the bathroom, you might've…"

"I can't say that I haven't thought about it, especially now, but I haven't. I wouldn't put myself through that again… or you," he added in a small voice.

Mycroft studied him carefully.

"Then what, Sherlock?" he asked desperately. "Something happened. I've never seen you so… scared."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, feeling so vulnerable. "I think… I think I'm losing my mind."

The tension broke in his tears, allowing a few to escape. He quickly wiped them away, standing up from the couch while holding the towel to him. Before Mycroft had the chance to respond, Sherlock scrambled to his room and shut the door. He didn't feel sad anymore, just embarrassed and scared. As soon as those words left his mouth, he knew it was his worst fear come true. He lost everything else in his life; his mind was all he had left.

He could hear Mycroft slowly approaching the door as if Sherlock were a skittish animal that would run off if he made a wrong move. Sherlock walked away from the door, using the towel to mop up the ice water before pulling on a clean set of clothes. He wore the first thing he grabbed, a pair of jeans and one of his cotton t-shirts.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said when he was close enough to be heard. "What did you mean by that?"

He didn't want to reply but he knew how persistent Mycroft could be. "I meant what I said."

"I still don't understand, I-"

Sherlock marched to the door, speaking to it as if it were Mycroft. "I have sufficient evidence to believe that I am losing my mind, Mycroft. The only thing I have left."

"What makes you believe that?"

"I've…" he struggled to admit his problem. "I've started hearing voices. It started the day of."

There was a pause on the other side of the door. "Do they say anything?" His voice was soft and pregnant with concern.

Sherlock was taken aback by his level of sensitivity. "…No. I can't understand them," he replied, leaning against the door. "It's just a lot of whispering in my head and it gets so loud!" "That can be attributed to depression, you know."

"It's not depression!" he shouted, slamming a fist against the door. "While, admittedly, I probably am depressed, that's not what this is. This is something different and not the only symptom."

"What more is there?"

"When I was in the shower, I couldn't feel the water. I could feel everything else but not the water. However, when you threw the ice on me I could feel it melting. I don't understand."

"That's a first for you, little brother."

"And the sickness I felt afterward, the fuzzy, disconnected feeling, I don't know what prompted that. I'm losing control of everything. My life used to be so organized and now look at it!" Anger surged through him as he started to pace in front of the door. "I blame John. I had everything figured out before he came along. Now I'm a mess with feelings I never wanted and an emotional cascade of sadness and pain that's sending me 'round the bend. I wish I had never met him!"

Those last words hung in the air, settling around Sherlock. He walked away and sat down on John's side of the bed, dropping his head in his hands. The doorknob to his bedroom turned delicately before the door was pushed open. Mycroft stood in the doorway for a moment, studying his brother as he walked into the room. He sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, draping an arm over his shoulders in a rare display of affection.

"We both know that's not true. You're a better man for knowing him."

"So why couldn't I keep him?" Sherlock asked, his voice so low it was barely a whisper.

"Who says he's lost to you?"

Sherlock froze under Mycroft's hold, turning to look his brother in the eye. Mycroft appeared as though he'd said nothing wrong, as if he didn't realize what he'd said. The words processed through Sherlock's mind, making a connection to similar things said to him before. Dream John's last words, Lestrade's comment about pretending it never happened, even John's dying words. _How far back did I start to lose my mind? _

"Why does everyone keep saying things like that to me?" Sherlock asked as he turned on the bed to face his brother.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked, his brow creased with confusion.

"What you just said. 'Who says he's lost to you?' What do you know that I don't?"

"It was a harmless comment that meant nothing. You need to focus on the bigger problem here."

Mycroft wore the same blank look Lestrade had, like he knew he'd said it but he didn't know why. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was him or them that caused this so he didn't push it. He knew Mycroft didn't know and Sherlock wasn't sure which way he wanted to be right.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked absently, only just hearing Mycroft's comment.

"I understand that you're hurting, little brother."

"I don't think you understand how much."

"Maybe not, but I don't think you're handling all of this very well."

"I'd like to see how you would handle it."

"Sherlock, you're ignoring the real problem here. You're focusing so much on John and your sadness that you don't see where the problem lies. If you don't face it, you'll never feel better."

"Since when did you become a psych-"

Sherlock stopped before he finished his sentence. He realized that Mycroft was right, not that he would ever tell him. He was ignoring the problem and if he didn't deal with it, he would never be able to heal. The problem was Jim Moriarty and he was going to fix it.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock stood up at the realization, unintentionally pushing Mycroft to the side. He ran his hands through his hair, an air of frenzy about him, as he thought and planned. He paced back and forth in front of his brother, his hair sticking out at all angles from its rough treatment. Mycroft rose to his feet, unsure of what had happened and what to do about it. His eyes followed his brother's movements for a minute before he stepped in. Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, forcing him to a stop.

"Sherlock, what is it? Is it the voices?"

Sherlock looked up at his brother as if he'd just noticed he was there. "What? No. Mycroft, you need to leave."

Mycroft's expression hardened and he dropped his hands. "I'm not leaving."

"Leave the room then!" he shouted. "I need some time to think."

He resumed his pacing as if the short exchange had never happened. Mycroft watched him for a few more seconds, his usually stoic manner wavering, before leaving the bedroom. He stormed out but managed to control himself as he carefully closed the door behind him. As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock locked it and resumed his place on the bed. He sat hunched over, with all of his weight resting on his elbows that stayed propped up on his knees. He rested his chin on steepled fingers, thoughts racing.

_Moriarty is the unsolved variable in this equation. He's the last loose end to tie up. As long as he's still out there, walking free, _alive_, I will never rest easy. This isn't revenge; this is justice. It's for all of the people he's killed and the one's he might kill. My head is in the right place. I can do this. But how?_

Sherlock moved into a more comfortable thinking position, lying down on his back on John's side of the bed. He kept his hands in the same pose, clasped as though in prayer with the tips of his fingers just under his chin. John's previously untouched pillow still bore his scent. The strong aroma fueled his thoughts rather than incapacitated them.

_I have to lure Moriarty out somehow, make him think I've changed in the way he wanted me too. He expected me to become him, he never thought that John would've already changed me, but if I can make him believe it, I can easily draw him out. And then what? What do I do? Take him into custody? Kill him? I need to plan this thoroughly before I make any kind of move._

The hours of the day dragged on, melting together into no time at all for Sherlock. Everything outside of his own mind didn't exist for him. He didn't see the light of day fade to black; he didn't hear Mycroft's worried pacing or the few times he knocked on the door to check on him. Nothing could've broken his train of thought. His eyes were closed in silent contemplation, he appeared peaceful enough to be sleeping but his mind was working hard to formulate the perfect plan. The only problem was he didn't know how it would end. That was the issue when dealing with another genius; it was difficult to plan Moriarty's moves in reaction to his own. He was unpredictable. That's what made him so dangerous.

There were several different paths, so many different endings. Some go well for Sherlock and some don't but he didn't know for sure how it would end. He didn't like that. He laid thinking until the moon shone brightly in the sky but, even then, he thought he would have to settle for an alternate ending. He woke from his stasis grumpy and unsatisfied, hating to have to compromise. He stood up from the bed, padding toward the door, when a knock caused him to stop and listen.

"Little brother, are you okay in there?" Mycroft asked. "I'm very worried now."

Sherlock sighed and opened the door. "You're still here?"

Mycroft's expression turned sour. "Of course I'm still here! I'm here for you!"

"You shouldn't be; I'm fine," Sherlock replied, crossing his arms.

"What happened to you thinking you were going mad? What happened to the depression?"

"I've pinpointed the root of the problem, Mycroft. That's all I have time and attention for right now."

"You could've told me. I wasn't sure what you were doing in there all day. You could've committed suicide and I wouldn't have known."

Sherlock paused, staring at his brother. "What was that?"

"I said you could've killed yourself! I was worried sick!" Mycroft shouted, his irritation rattling his disposition.

Sherlock moved past his brother and into the living room as he thought aloud. "Kill myself… it hadn't crossed my mind before…"

"I'm glad for that." Mycroft sighed as he followed his brother, collapsing in a chair from emotional exhaustion.

"…But it could work," Sherlock continued, swept up in his stream of consciousness.

"What! What could work?"

"Nothing, Mycroft. It's fine, I'm fine. You should go. I'm sure you have business to attend to," Sherlock said, facing Mycroft.

"Nothing is more important than you right now," he replied, sitting up straighter in his chair.

Sherlock sighed, his frustration building, but he knew he would never get his brother to leave through anger. He raked a hand through his hair, trying to calm his mind before attempting to speak.

"Listen to me; I'm fine… for now. Just leave me for the night, okay? Go home, do work, come back tomorrow. Please," Sherlock said carefully to make sure his brother understood.

Mycroft appeared to be warring with himself, unsure if he should leave his brother alone. He scanned Sherlock, assessing his physical and mental state, attempting to come to an ultimate conclusion. Eventually, he sighed, grabbing his umbrella from beside the chair to help him stand. He stood at eye level to his brother, staring him down as a silent warning as if to say: _If you're lying, little brother, I'll be far from pleased._ Sherlock nodded once in understanding.

"Okay, Sherlock. I'll be back tomorrow."

"See you then," Sherlock replied, watching Mycroft swing his umbrella as he walked out of the flat.

When the door closed, Sherlock visibly relaxed, dropping the mask he was trying to keep up for Mycroft's sake. Suicide. It was unexpected, unconventional, but the perfect fit for the hole in his plan. It was unpredictable enough to rival Moriarty's changeable attitude and throw him off his guard. His enemy was so full of himself that suicide would be inconceivable to him. It was time to initiate the plan. He had to call Moriarty out and he knew just the way to do it.

Sherlock looked around for a laptop, grabbing the only one in sight off of the desk in the corner. He dropped into a chair, about to open the lid, when he noticed it wasn't his. He hesitated but forced himself to push through it. It made no difference whose laptop it was. He opened the cover to the log in screen and typed in the last password he remembered John having. Sherlock could always guess his passwords even though John had taken to changing his every week in an attempt to keep him out. When he realized that wouldn't work, he started leaving Sherlock messages as passwords. The most recent one was: Sherlock, you forgot the milk. He smiled to himself as he hit enter and the screen unlocked.

His desktop was bare since John wasn't really one for technology but it made his internet browser easier to find. He opened it and went straight to his website: The Science of Deduction. He knew Moriarty would be and was patiently awaiting a sign, an update, and he was about to give it to him. He opened the page to make a new post and wrote the note that his nemesis had been eagerly anticipating.

Dear Jim,

Please, will you fix it for me so that I won't have to feel anymore? I require your assistance. White cliffs. Midnight.

He knew as he hit the post button that Moriarty would see it and come running. He couldn't resist. It would be his downfall. Sherlock checked the time in the corner of the laptop screen. It was still early so he had plenty of time to make it to the cliffs before Moriarty. He closed the laptop, leaving it in the chair, and moved to sit at the desk. If he was going to go through with his plan, he felt like he had one last thing to do. Sherlock grabbed a pen from a cup on the desk, a blank piece of lined paper, and started to write.

My Dearest John,

While I dejectedly admit you are gone I am writing to you so that I may divulge things left unsaid before my final hour. I am rarely at a loss for words, rarely bemused, and rarely wrong, so what I am about to write would've surprised you as it has surprised me. Throughout my life I was always so sure that I didn't need anyone except for me. I was so very sure of this up until that fateful day you walked into the lab at Bart's to inquire about a flatmate. Upon our first meeting I severely underestimated the effect you would have on me. You were the first person to make me feel unsure, to force me to question myself and the path I was on. You made me deconstruct my whole life just so I could rebuild it to fit around you. I have had a revelation and I had it far too late, for that I apologize, but it has made me sure once again. I have realized that you were the one thing I didn't know I needed in my life and now, without you here, my life has little meaning. I hope you would forgive me for the actions I am about to take; I know how you would disapprove. It is unconventional, I confess, but this will solve all of my problems and remove a deep-seeded menace from society. By dawn, Moriarty will be dead and so will I.

Love,

Sherlock Holmes


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock left the letter on the desk so that Mycroft would easily find it the next day. He grabbed his coat, scarf, and gloves before leaving the flat and hailing a taxi. He felt calm more than anything, unafraid and accepting of his choice. He arrived at the cliffs at a quarter to midnight, drawing his coat closer to himself to shield from the biting chill. The moon and the stars illuminated enough for him to see a few feet in front of him but nothing more.

He waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot to keep his blood circulating and himself alert. He knew by not specifying where along the cliffs he wanted to meet would give him time to be there first and prepare himself but Sherlock huffed as the time dragged by like tires through deep mud. Sherlock stuck it out and waited along the cliff line, absent of people at that time of night. The plan he made would unfold no matter how long he was forced to wait.

He was almost tempted to sit down and wait when he suddenly sensed a disturbance. No one was visible but he didn't feel like he was alone anymore. A faint whisper started chattering at the back of his head. He shrugged it off, ignoring the sound as he swept the shadows for the one that was alive. He knew he was moving, swift and invisible in the darkness, but he also knew he wouldn't show himself until he wanted to be seen.

His hair stood on end and his skin burned with the sensation of being watched. He dropped his arms to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists in preparation for a fight if it arose. He could feel him approaching, as if they were tied together by an unseen string, and the closer he moved, the louder the voices became. They grew more and more difficult to ignore but he tried his best. If he wanted his plan to run smoothly, he needed his full attention on Moriarty. His eyes darted in every direction, trying to spot him within the thick tar of night but he failed to. He felt too exposed for his situation. Panic leaked through his calm shell until he finally caught sight of him. The single moving shadow in the hoard of darkness stepped into the silvery glow of moonlight.

The voices, which had been growing exponentially louder, exploded in his head as he sauntered into view. Moriarty looked exactly as he'd remembered him before. He cleaned up for the occasion, shaved, got a haircut, and managed to dig up a Westwood suit, all for him. His hands were clasped behind his back as he walked, stopping a few feet in front of the detective. A toothy, shark-like grin stretched across his face that was devoid of anything resembling happiness. It appeared to be a crack carved out of insanity.

His visage caused the voices to scream in his head, a loud, frantic sound that said nothing in a human language. They merged, speaking simultaneously, but he couldn't pick out any actual words. He glanced up at Moriarty; he needed to keep his attention on him, but he didn't appear to be paying attention to Sherlock. His grin slowly morphed into a frown, his head cocked to one side as if listening to something, as if he could hear the voices too. Sherlock clutched his ears, almost doubling over from the pain. His whole body hurt, every molecule on fire from an unseen flame. Jim Moriarty approached the writhing man, keeping his hands behind his back. He didn't seem surprised, intrigued, or disturbed by Sherlock's behavior. With each step he stole toward Sherlock, the voices grew louder, smashing against his eardrums with the force of a bullet.

Tears of pain rolled from his ducts as the shouting assaulted his mind. There was nothing he could do to block it out, no matter how hard he tried. They spoke rapidly but he tried to listen, reasoning that if he heard what they had to say, they would stop. He closed his eyes and concentrated, not even flinching when he felt Moriarty standing inches from him. The harder he concentrated, the more the voices started to distinguish themselves. As they had before, the voices melded together into one voice. It turned from a chorus to an echo to one solid, strong voice that caused his breath to hitch in his throat from the shock of realization. It was still talking gibberish but, after days of listening to it, he was surprised he hadn't recognized it before. It was all too familiar.

He pulled his hands away from his ears, leaving hot, thick blood on his palms; yet his eardrums were still intact. He opened his eyes and looked down as the voice spoke in his head. There, standing directly in front of him, was the source of the voice. Moriarty smiled up at him, lips unmoving, yet it was his voice he heard ringing in his ears. It had always been his voice.

"It's you," Sherlock whispered, voice hoarse.

"What's who?" he asked innocently, staring him in the eye.

"You're the voice in my head. Talking. Ever since you killed John. Saying… what are you saying? Why? Why are you doing this to me? You've taken everything," Sherlock stared at Moriarty with wide, desperate eyes that pled for answers.

Moriarty reached up, lightly touching Sherlock's face. Sherlock flinched sharply at the touch. "You lied to me, Sherlock," Moriarty said, slapping the detective across the face.

Sherlock grimaced at the hit. He felt nothing at first but a dull, throbbing pain quickly set in. He glared down at Moriarty, clenching his fists in an attempt to refrain from reciprocating the action. Moriarty grinned up at him, that sly, lizard grin. He thought he was in control. How wrong he was.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he replied. Moriarty's voice had started to ease in his head, still prominent but easier to ignore.

"You know full well what I mean. You're not broken, not in the way I wanted you to be," he hissed, venom dripping from his words. He spoke as if he were a giant, a great evil. He thought so much of himself and up until that moment, Sherlock supposed, he had the right. "What went wrong?"

"You made the same simple mistake any idiot would," Sherlock replied as he started to move. He walked around Moriarty to stand behind him, forcing the criminal to turn his back to the cliffs. "I would've made the same mistake a year ago."

"And what's that?" Moriarty seethed.

"You discounted that which you didn't understand. That which you didn't believe in," he replied, being vague just to irritate his foe.

"And what would that be?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Love, Moriarty. You claimed to have a cure, but how can you cure what you don't completely understand?

A confused expression spread over Moriarty's face, pure and honest bemusement. "But I did take it into account. You were supposed to be crushed by your emotions. You were supposed to be overloaded into feeling nothing."

"Quite the opposite," Sherlock said, stealing a step forward. "I was overloaded into feeling everything."

"I'll take that into account next time," Moriarty replied, stepping back as Sherlock stepped forward.

"Oh, Jim," Sherlock cooed in a falsely soothing voice as he continued to advance. "There won't be a next time."

"What do you-"

They were close enough to the ledge for Sherlock to lunge at Moriarty with full force. He ran and jumped before Moriarty realized what was happening, wrapping his arms tightly around the criminal's torso in a restraining hug. The force of the tackle caused Moriarty to lose his balance and topple backward, Sherlock in tow. The expression on his face was priceless to Sherlock. The surprise and horror gave him a sense of fulfillment and victory. He won and Moriarty knew it. Moriarty's expression shifted to anger as they both fell over the edge of the cliff.

Sherlock struggled to keep his grip as they cut through the air. Time seemed to slow as the wind ran past them, seemingly attempting to break their fall to no avail. Sherlock felt at peace; he was ready to die, and a smile cracked across his face just before they hit the water.

The impact sounded like a gunshot in his ears and it was a few seconds before he actually felt the water surrounding him. His first instinct was panic, an urge to swim to safety, but he fought it back. Moriarty was still alive, bruised and possibly broken, struggling in his grip, but Sherlock had to keep him under to drown the both of them. Moriarty struggled even harder, losing air as he did so. With each breath that escaped from his nostrils, a cascade of bubbles flowed serenely through the water. The two of them watched the last of their air leave their lungs as it made its escape to the surface.

Moriarty stared Sherlock in the eye, anger and disappointment clear on his face. It had been a few seconds since all of the air had left Sherlock and his lungs started to burn from the strain. He was waiting, feeling the fire in his chest, for Moriarty to break first. He did. Moriarty gasped, the salty water pouring into his lungs. The criminal fought against the feeling, attempting to force the water out but there was only more of it waiting to get in. Sherlock kept his hold on Moriarty until the thrashing stopped and all the life left his features. He watched Moriarty's body sink out of reach as he inhaled to extinguish the burning in his chest.

He didn't fight it; he let the ocean encompass him, become a part of him. There was some pain but not for long; soon it was almost like falling asleep. His eyelids became heavy, falling over his eyes like curtains. The voice in his head, Moriarty's voice, grew fainter with each passing breath he was unable to take. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift away when he heard a different voice. It was calling his name, shouting it, and he recognized it just as he had Moriarty's. It was John's voice. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, his last thought would be of John. He couldn't have asked for anything better as the darkness consumed him and he felt nothing.

But, even in the darkness, he heard John's voice, calling out to him, beckoning him. He didn't understand. He was dead. There was no life after death, so where was the voice coming from? He was lost, confused, until he inhaled sharply, filling his lungs. He panicked, expecting to be berated by water again, but all that filled his chest was air. Not clean air. He could taste the stuffy heat on his tongue. Hesitantly, he tried again, his chest expanding as if filled with the same thick air.

"Sherlock!" John's voice called again and again, becoming more frantic as time passed.

He tried to look around but the blackness was too heavy to see anything. He tried to move but couldn't, feeling restrained in his expanse of death. The most important thing was what he felt and that was dry. He was no longer in the ocean. He wasn't anywhere but he was conscious. _Maybe there was an afterlife after all_, he thought.

"Sherlock!" he continued to call.

He appreciated hearing John's voice but it would've been nice if his insanity had let him say more than just that.

"Sherlock, wake up! Please!"

John's voice sounded loud, more distinct, as if it were playing on a surround sound system in his subconscious. He tried to respond, thinking the source of the voice might hear him, but no sound left him. His throat felt dry and rough, as if it hadn't been used in days. That didn't stop him from trying. He forced sound out of him, working lax muscles. It started as deep, unintelligible sounds but, after a few minutes, his voice returned, still raw as though he'd swallowed barbed wire.

"John?"

"Sherlock? Oh, thank God. Sherlock, listen to me. You have to open your eyes. If you go under, I don't know if you'll come back out."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock struggled. "I'm dead. So are you."

"No one's dead, Sherlock, but you will be if you don't open your eyes!"

"But, John…"

"Open. Your. Eyes." Each word was punctuated by a tremor running through him as if someone was shaking him.

Sherlock seemed so sure his eyes were already open but there was nothing to see. _Still_, he thought, _it couldn't hurt to try. _So, with considerable effort, he pried open his eyelids, breaking open the perpetual darkness to the brightest light he thought he'd never see again. He squinted, his retinas burning under the assault. His head pounded and his thoughts were fuzzy. He could think but not in complete or coherent sentences. He still couldn't move. He tried but he was bound or restrained… or paralyzed.

He couldn't see anything at first but as he blinked a few more times a face started to clear. He still thought he was dead or crazy because of what he was seeing. He moved his head, his neck stiff and painful, so he could get a better look. It was hard for him to hold his head up straight, like lead on his shoulders.

"John?" Sherlock asked weakly to the face with the wide grayish-blue eyes and dirty blonde hair.

A pair of hands gripped his face tightly, almost desperately, as John planted a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock could feel John's tears as they ran down his cheeks and dripped onto him. John pulled away to look him in the eye.

"I must be in heaven," Sherlock whispered to himself but it was loud enough for John to hear.

"No, you're alive," John said, still gripping his face.

"But you're not," Sherlock explained sadly.

"I am, Sherlock. We both are."

Sherlock shook his head like a defiant child.

"Think," John said, stroking Sherlock's face with his thumbs. "Look at your surroundings. You know that's not true."

Sherlock contorted his face as though he were pouring all of his effort into one thought. "I can't. I can't think straight."

John sighed. "It must be the drugs," he said to someone else in the room as he dropped his hands.

"We'll have to get him out of here," replied a familiar voice.

"To a hospital, preferably," replied a third party.

"I'd rather take him home," John replied, turning toward the other members of the conversation. "I can take care of him."

"Maybe after a day or so but he should really go to a hospital first," the second person reasoned.

"You're right," John conceded.

"You and Mycroft take him," the second person said. "I'll stay here and deal with this mess."

"Thank you, Lestrade," John said.

"Just be quick about it," Lestrade replied.

"I've just sent for a car," Mycroft said. "It'll be here in a few minutes. You should get him out of that chair."

_Chair? _Sherlock thought. He tried to look down but it just caused his vision to swim out of focus and a nausea that made his whole body shake.

"Gonna be sick," he mumbled as he turned his head to the side and kept his word. "Ugh."

"It's okay," John soothed. "Get it all out."

John hunched over Sherlock, releasing him from whatever chair he was in, he assumed. He could feel John's hands working at something around his right wrist before moving to his left. Sherlock lifted his arms into his field of vision. It felt like moving through wet concrete but he managed it. He looked at his pale forearms, blinking until they were clear, to see them riddled with needle marks. The tiny, bruised pinpricks decorated his skin with the frequency of chicken pox.

"What did I do?" he asked the air, shocked into silence as he continued to stare at his arms.

"It wasn't you. That's a story for another day," John said. "Lestrade, I've got him out. Can you help?"

"Yeah," he replied, rushing to his aid.

Lestrade stepped into Sherlock's sight and to the side to help support Sherlock as he and John lifted him out of the chair. The sudden shift caused Sherlock to be sick again, Lestrade stepping clear of the mess as it hit the floor. The residual taste in Sherlock's mouth was far from pleasant. John rubbed his back as they stepped forward, keeping clear of the sick as they walked. Sherlock tried to assist by attempting to walk but his feet were as heavy as the rest of him. Save for the occasional step, his feet dragged along the floor. John and Lestrade carried him outside where it was day; the even brighter light made that painfully obvious. He closed his eyes to keep the light from amplifying his already monumental headache.

He could hear the roar of a car pull up a minute later. It started to purr as it was shifted into park. Sherlock heard a door pop open before he felt himself being folded into the back seat by the two men and he complied, falling into the car with ease. He felt two other people climb in after him, one sitting beside him while the other sat opposite.

"You can open your eyes now. The windows are tinted," John said.

He obeyed, opening them to a stern but pale looking Mycroft. He turned to his right where John was sitting, staring back at Sherlock. Both of them were looking at him with contained concern. They were clearly worried about his well being. His vision continued to waver but he tried to get a good look at John's face. There was something splattered on it and it seemed a lot like blood. He pointed to it.

"What happened?

John reached up and touched his face, wiping some of the blood off so he could see it. He looked mildly surprised but not confused as if he knew how it had come to be there. He wiped it off on his jeans and wrapped an arm around Sherlock, pulling him into a laying position with his head on John's lap. He stroked Sherlock's hair, calming him.

"It's nothing. I'll tell you later. Rest for now."

Sherlock lost himself in thought, trying to bring up anything important he wanted to ask in a sea of confusion. He knew there was something important. He had mentioned it before. When it finally came to him, he looked John in the eye before asking.

"Have I gone mad?"

"No, Sherlock. You're quite sane. A little out of it, is all. Just rest for now but don't fall asleep."

Sherlock nodded and did just that, humming contentedly as John brushed his fingers through his hair.

It was hard for him to stay awake in his condition. John had mentioned drugs and he did feel drugged, he realized, to an extreme extent. He had probably been milligrams from an overdose but it wasn't self-administered. The needle marks were sloppy, some of them misplaced. Sherlock was a seasoned addict and he knew where to stick a needle. He wasn't sure what had happened but he knew it wouldn't be a boring story.

John kept Sherlock awake with kisses and constant talking. Mostly, he said nothing of importance to keep him alert, but occasionally he would say things that struck him like a shot of caffeine. Things like 'stay awake for me', 'I don't know what I'd do without you', and the classic 'I love you'. Sherlock was still guarding himself because he wasn't sure if what was happening was real but hearing those words in John's voice made him wish it was. Even if it wasn't, at least the John currently touching him was warm.

It was a quick ride to the hospital, the traffic magically clearing as they traveled. Having the government for a brother had its perks. When they arrived, the car screeched to a halt in front of the doors and Mycroft rushed out of the car to sort things out inside. John was left to help Sherlock out of the car and support him as they shuffled into the building. Sherlock cringed at the sight of the hospital but couldn't do anything to avoid it. His system needed to be flushed of the drugs if he wanted to live. He knew the drill as much as he wished not to.

After he was checked in, the next few days were a painful blur of detox and withdrawal. The only thing his rational mind would tell him was that he needed drugs and he needed them badly. The urge crawled around under his skin, making his body burn and itch. He wanted to tear his skin open to make it stop.

He was restrained most of the time and he struggled against them so much that he knew he would have scars on his wrists from how many times the leather cut them open. He'd been moved into 221b at some point during his internal fight but he wasn't sure when. He barely noticed the change in scenery. He recognized he said some awful things to the doctors and John while under their care but it was the pain and the need talking. He knew he would regret it when he was clean. Especially the things he said to John.

It had almost been a week when he was finally in his right mind again. He opened his eyes to see his bedroom which had been converted into a makeshift hospital room. He glanced around the room, searching for John but he wasn't around. Panic set in, forming a lump of fear in his gut. What if John had never actually been there? What if insanity had taken him?

"John!" Sherlock called out shakily, his body shivering from minor tremors. He was half scared that John wouldn't show up and half scared that he would.

"In a minute, Sherlock!" John's voice called from outside of the room.

Sherlock waited patiently for him to arrive, nervous for reason that he couldn't divine. A few minutes later, he walked in with a cup of tea in hand.

"Tea? How very English," Sherlock said with a smile.

"It cures all ails. I should know; I'm a doctor," John replied, walking around the bed to hand him the cup.

He accepted it and stole a small sip for John's sake. Afterward, he just held the cup, leaving it untouched. John pulled up the chair he'd placed at Sherlock's bedside and sat down. Sherlock stared at him with apologetic eyes and John grasped his hand as if to say that it was okay, that he understood. Sherlock felt the heat radiating from John's hand, saw the life and kindness in his eyes; he was just like his John. He wanted him to real but he was so emotionally fragile that if he became attached to a hallucination and was ripped from him, he would break for sure. He stayed cautious for his sanity's sake.

John noticed his hesitance and suspicion. It was clear on his face, the way he looked at him and the way he acted. Sherlock said some confusing things when he experienced withdrawal the he probably didn't remember. Things like 'you're not real' and 'my John is dead'. He knew enough to realize that whatever Sherlock had experienced had been awful. He was going to have to tread carefully.

"So…" Sherlock started. "I'm sorry."

"I know," John said with a small smile.

"Especially for the gay slurs. Those were rude and uncalled for."

"Sherlock, I've dealt with addicts before. I know you didn't mean it," John said, kissing the back of Sherlock's hand.

"Just making sure."

John paused, thinking. Sherlock watched him carefully, noticing every expression, every subtle change. Every second he watched him, the more he was convinced that he was real. When John looked up at him, he looked away, not wanting to be caught.

"I assume you want to know what happened?"

"It would certainly fill in some blanks," Sherlock laughed but it was empty of humor.

"This might be hard to hear." John inhaled deeply, trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. "Sherlock, Moriarty kidnapped you."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "But only until he killed you."

"Oh." John wasn't sure how to respond to that. Sherlock's withdrawal ramblings made more sense to him. "Do you remember the day you were taken? You worked in the lab all morning and then left for a case."

Sherlock flinched. He did remember, especially the way he'd treated John before he left. "Yes."

"Moriarty took you from the address he sent to you," John said, grasping Sherlock's hand with both of his. "He never let you go. He lured you that abandoned house, knocked you out, and brought you to a different place."

"I… don't. What did he do?"

"He kept you drugged the whole time. Since you aren't exactly new to such influences, he had to use a lot to keep you under. From there, I guess he was influencing your hallucination from the outside."

Sherlock was very quiet, processing all of the information. When he fit it into what happened to him, it explained the occurrences that didn't make sense. "That explains his voice in my head… but there is no possible way he could've controlled everything."

"No, but a few crucial things… like my death. He must've done it because he knew he'd never get to me. Not when everyone was on high alert. We knew you were missing within hours after you left. Finding you was the hard part."

"So, you wouldn't have come running if you'd gotten a text from me asking for help?"

"I would've tried but those officers would never have let me out," John laughed.

Sherlock nodded. He looked down at the tea still sitting in his free hand, getting lost in it. He tried to remember his experience but it was difficult. He concentrated, sifting through what John said was hallucination as he looked for reality. He gasped when he caught sight of it, spotting a flash of a dark room, musty and dust covered. It was a broken room, furniture toppled over, shattered glass, and he sat in a rusty contraption of a chair that was Moriarty's own creation. Moriarty. He remembered him too. He was a mess, so desperate to ruin Sherlock that he destroyed his sense of self in the process. He remembered feeling his hot, disgusting breath on his neck as he whispered influences to him.

"What happened to him?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence he created.

"He's dead."

Sherlock remembered the gunshot sound he heard when he hit the water in his hallucination. "You shot him."

"Yes," John answered even though it wasn't a question.

"That's why there was blood on your face," he said, turning to look John in the eye.

John nodded, holding Sherlock's hand to his face as he kissed each of his fingers. He looked into John's eyes. Those lovely eyes. The kindest, most forgiving eyes he'd ever seen. The eyes he wanted to fall asleep looking into every night. He couldn't help but smile.

"I suppose I understand now why everyone in my hallucination was telling me to forget that you'd died. My mind was attempting to inform me that none of it was real. I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner." Sherlock paused, studying John's face again for a moment before continuing in a small voice. "You are real, right?"

"I'm real, Sherlock. It's really me."

Sherlock looked to those eyes and all he saw was brutal honesty and tears started to well up in his own. Unexpectedly, he pulled John into a tight hug, sobbing quietly as he buried his face in his neck. John responded, wrapping his arms around Sherlock just as tightly. They stayed like that for a long time, John realizing that Sherlock had been severely traumatized from being kidnapped. John crawled on the bed to lie next to Sherlock, interlocked with him for the rest of the day.

That night Sherlock slept restlessly, whimpering and crying as his fear plagued his dreams but John stayed with him. He held him close as he stroked his hair, whispering to him positive thoughts that would inspire small bouts of peace in him. That first night home and clean was the first battle in what would surely be a long war with Sherlock's damaged psyche but they made it out on the other end alive and that's all the mattered. When the sun rose in the dawn, Sherlock woke up and stared into John's eyes before speaking.

"You won't leave me, will you?" he asked, voicing his fears.

"No," John replied, vowing to keep the promise he was making. "I never will."

* * *

Author's Note: I would just like to thank my readers who have read all the way through to the end, whether you liked it or you didn't. There's one more story in this series called The Eternity Proposition. I promise copious amounts of fluff.


End file.
